It Takes A Bomb
by 221bSuperPotterWhoLocked
Summary: Sherlock and John have been living together for some time now, and things are starting to tense up at 221B. When John comes across an old enemy and a bomber makes his debut, how will the Baker Street Boys handle their changing relationship? Johnlock. Co-written with my role play partner GivenThePuzzleIWillDance
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys. I hope you enjoy this story. It started out as a simple role play between me and my great friend GivenThePuzzleIWillDance, and it took on a life of its own. She has also posted this story on her page, so if you also want to follow and favorite her, that would be great. Once again I hope you enjoy.**

"But it's the Solar System!" John yelled.

Ugh, not this argument again.

"Oh, Hell! What does it matter? So what if we go around the Sun, or around the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear? It wouldn't make any difference! None of it matters. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or better still; stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

John was just about tired of this argument and the stubborn man before him. No, not 'just about'; he _was_ tired of this. Granted, there was something spectacular about Sherlock, but his attitude was just getting progressively worse as the days went on with no cases or anything to entertain him.

"I'm going out. I need some air." John said gruffly. Anything to be away from there.

Sherlock started to sink down further into the couch, but instead got up and grabbed John's arm.

"Wait." Sherlock called, surprising himself and the ex-army doctor.

John looked up at Sherlock and quelled his temper. Patiently, he asked,

"What?"

Now that Sherlock had John, he didn't know what to say. He didn't even know why he stopped the doctor in the first place. Something came over him and moved him to get the doctors attention.

"I was out of line with that last comment." Sherlock stated as he backed away a couple of steps.

Sherlock knew that he should have said more, but for once he had no clue what to say to the shorter man before him.

John was slightly taken aback by what seemed to be an apology. The good doctor then calmed himself and nodded.

"Uh, yeah. It's fine." John replied while sitting back down in his chair. He was completely unsure of the change of atmosphere and didn't know what to do.

A few seconds later, there was a knock at the door and the sound of sweet old Mrs. Hudson walking in with bags of groceries.

"Yoohoo. You boys alright? It's awfully quiet." Mrs. Hudson said as she placed the groceries in the kitchen.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Everything is fine." John replied while opening his laptop to do...something. He didn't know what to do anymore. He needed something, but what? He looked over at Sherlock and got an idea.

"There's an exhibit at the museum on anthropologic findings in the Middle East. Want to go?" John suggested to the detective.

Sherlock, at the time, was trying to think of a way to get his gun back from John so he could shoot the walls some more when he heard John's suggestion. He opened his mouth to reply "dull" but stopped himself. He had already angered John once that morning, and didn't have any intention of repeating that.

"Fine. Sounds intriguing." Sherlock replied instead. He couldn't help but allow his sarcasm to seep through his words.

John chuckled to himself as he grabbed his wallet off of the desk and his jacket off of his chair.

"We're off, Mrs. Hudson." he bid farewell to their landlady.

John couldn't help but feel a little excited. He was going to finally see the positive, resourceful, historical side of the Middle East, rather than the war. The fact that Sherlock was joining made him a little bit happier to know that he wasn't going to relive old memories alone.

Sherlock looked at John and a small smile slid onto his lips. John seemed so happy at the thought of going to this exhibit. Sherlock started to follow the doctor, but then realized that he was still in his pajamas and dressing gown.

"John, I may need a moment to change, unless you'd rather I went like this."

John turned and realized the error. A very faint blush rose to his cheeks at the thought of someone going to a public place in their pajamas. It just simply wasn't done. It may have been found at the grocery stores in America, but not at the museums in London.

"Er, sure. Go change, please." John replied while wondering to the kitchen.

"I'll be back in a moment." Sherlock said while walking to his room. There, he changed and was back in the kitchen in a matter of minutes.

When he came into the kitchen, Sherlock stopped and watched John for a couple of moments. Sherlock stared at John and thought quietly to himself. Was he really sure about this? He and John didn't do much in public together that didn't involve a case. Why should they start now? Doing things in public with someone was odd for Sherlock – especially if it didn't involve a crime scene. Sherlock looked over John and began thinking about his latest experiment. He hated whatever feelings he was experiencing. Honestly, he didn't know what they were. John was sort of staring into space before he realized that Sherlock was in the room again.

"Ready to go?" he said, slightly startled when he noticed the taller man.

Sherlock simply nodded, grabbed his coat, and started for the door. This took John out of his sluggish daze as he followed in suit of the detective towards the museum. The skies outside were bleak and promised rain and cold temperatures for the rest of the day. John frowned a little but appreciated the consistency of London.

"Lovely day, isn't it, Sherlock?" John declared with mirth in his voice.

Sherlock just shrugged. He didn't see any beauty in the skies above that would appeal to John's senses. It was only then that it occurred to Sherlock that John was being sarcastic. He looked over to the doctor with a questioning look and John nodded and looked ahead in response. Apparently, to John, Sherlock's sarcasm skills only worked on Sherlock. That thought made John sigh a little as they rounded the corner and took in the sight of the museum. They looked up at the columns and observed. The grooves were almost large enough for a man to squeeze between.

John looked over at the exhibit poster and groaned inwardly. There was a speaker from his past that was at the exhibit that day. John looked over to Sherlock and wondered if there would be some way to get away from the old dogged past that haunted him like ghosts.

Sherlock looked down at John as they walked towards the exhibit and wondered what made the usually calm doctor so tense. He seemed perfectly fine until they walked into the museum. As the men rounded the corner, John found sight of the speaker. Not wanting to make eye contact, he quickly turned to walk briskly away, not wanting to grab any attention, but instead rammed straight into Sherlock.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked the shorter man. John's face was pale and his eyes were dilated. Sherlock took a hold of both of John's arms and steadied him. John looked terrified.

John glanced at Sherlock's hands on his shoulders and was thrown off guard. Sherlock never touched him for more than a second at best. Not wanting to make a scene, John just shook his head.

"Um, nothing. I just need some-" he was cut off by an all too familiar voice.

John closed his eyes and remained calm, but on the inside he was in a riot against having to face an old demon. Instead, he gently turned out of Sherlock's grasp and faced his old commanding officer.

"Hello, Major Griffin." John greeted coldly. The men then exchanged salutes.

John went completely stiff from head to toe as the man before him completely relaxed without any qualms.

"Watson, it's good to see you. Who's this?" the Major asked, looking at Sherlock with a hint of skepticism in his countenance.

"Sherlock Holmes, a friend." Sherlock said.

He studied the man with a glance. Military, judging by the tan and hair. Just got back from either a holiday or from deployment. No tan above the wrists. Deployment then. High ranking officer judging from his stance and the way John addressed him. He'd been John's commanding officer. Mustard stain on his left lapel, which showed that he was not an extremely careful man. Finally, judging from John's stance and uncharacteristic tone, Sherlock deduced that this Major Griffin was somewhat responsible for John's injury.

"Ah, nice to meet you Mr. Holmes." the Major greeted, holding his hand out as a friendly greeting.

John remained still and tried to keep himself in check. Memories of this man were not ever welcome company, and he tried to forget them.

"Major, how did you come about lecturing for an anthropological study?" John asked politely, wanting to make small talk. He didn't exactly favor the idea of Major Griffin becoming too chummy with his friend. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock, who loved attention, did not take the Major's hand. Sherlock had it settled that since Major Griffin caused John's accident, he did not want to show this man any acknowledgement.

John noticed Sherlock's lack of interaction and relaxed a little.

"They needed someone to talk about the war in the next exhibit over. Why don't you join? We could use your experience." the Major suggested with a little too much mirth in his voice. Griffin then clapped John on the back and John felt a pinching pain against his bad shoulder. Thinking nothing of it, since it was his bad shoulder, he kept a straight face.

John glanced over at Sherlock to see what his response would be on the matter. He was considering telling Griffin that he had to visit with an old friend soon and couldn't when Sherlock spoke up. With an expression of ice, Sherlock placed his hand back on John's arm. John jumped a bit.

"Don't we need to get back to the case, John?"

Of course! A case!

"Oh, yes. Yes we do. Sorry, that I couldn't assist you, Major." John said.

The Major smirked at John as they exchanged a farewell salute and walked on his way. John sucked in his breath and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and walked swiftly in the opposite direction. Sherlock stopped them when they reached the outside of the museum. Knowing that something was hidden from him, he turned to the doctor.

"What did he do to you?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

John shook his head and walked with the detective, "I wasn't supposed to be on the field that day. He pulled me to the side and demanded I go. At that point in time, I didn't have much choice then, now did I?" John paused to scrape gum off of his shoe. Bloody teenagers.

"He also neglected to tell me when he first spotted the enemy out there. A few minutes later..." John made a pew noise with his mouth and sighed, "Never really liked the bloody man either."

"Moron." Sherlock mumbled, "Well, if it helps, he didn't sign up for this position."

John laughed a little, "No, I guess not. So have you heard from Lestrade?"

John was trying to change the subject. He didn't like what pictures were trickling back to his mind like acid.

"Nothing. Did all the interesting criminals go on holiday?" Sherlock sighed, as if it were the worst thing in the world. He didn't want to leave John's story though. That was interesting to the detective at that point, since nothing else reached out to entertain him.

"John, what else happened? That can't be all of it."

John looked ahead and walked in step with Sherlock, "There's not much else that happened." He replied swiftly.

Suddenly, John heard a loud sound that came from Baker Street. Startled and concerned, the men ran to the source of the problem and saw what mess they were in this time.

There was rubble everywhere and the flats across the street from theirs were completely destroyed. John hoped that there were no people in the flats at the time of the explosion.

"John?" Sherlock asked after a minute of shock.

By that time though, John already had Sherlock's arm and was running to their flat to find Mrs. Hudson. As they came to the door, John saw her inside Speedy's. A sigh of relief escaped him as he let go of Sherlock's arm and surged forward to see if Mrs. Hudson was unharmed.

"I'm alright, John. There was a gas leak apparently. I was in the back of my flat, so I didn't see what exactly happened." she assured them both.

John nodded and proceeded towards the door to their shared flat. Walking up the stairs, he could already smell smoke, but gasoline wasn't a proponent of the scent.

"Sherlock, do you smell that?"

"Yes I do. It wasn't a gas leak. No gas would cause that much damage. Someone did this on purpose."

John walked through the flat and suddenly felt dizzy. Groping for his chair, John buckled onto his right knee as images of the war shot though his mind and his head was spinning. The smell got a little stronger before John laid himself flat on the floor, army crawling to the door slowly.

"John?" Sherlock knelt down beside him, "John, what's wrong?" he put his hand on the doctor's shoulder.

John looked up at Sherlock, "Cover...nose...drugged..." John managed to squeak out before grabbing onto Sherlock, "Out!"

John hoped that Sherlock would be able to drag him out of the room. Something caused him to become disoriented as he relived his army days in his mind...that specific day at least. Sherlock knew what was going on and covered his nose as precaution as he dragged the doctor out of the room. He pulled him to the stairs and shut the doors of the flat. After pulling John up into a sitting position, he placed his hands on either side of John's face.

"John, are you alright? Are you alright!?" Sherlock was panicking. John looked absolutely dazed and horrified.

John cleared his head as best as he could and gave a thumb's up. He could feel Sherlock's hands on his face and felt a blush rise to his cheeks. At that moment another memory flashed though his mind and he flinched towards Sherlock, trying to protect himself. John tried his best to breathe steadily and calm himself. He had no clue what drug was in his system or how Sherlock wasn't affected. All that the doctor knew was that he needed someone to stay with him...preferably someone who was six feet tall with a brain the size of a watermelon. That last thought made John giggle a little.

"Sh..Sherlock. I'm fine...Just need some water." John replied. John then lost his balance and dropped his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his doctor and held him close. John was trembling from his vivid "day-mares" and held on to the detective. Sherlock was more shocked at his actions than John, but then again, he wasn't. Even Sherlock Holmes was not exempt to surprising himself occasionally. John then flinched and let out a sharp cry of pain and horror, which caused Sherlock's focus to hone in on the man he was holding.

"John, I'm right here. Whatever you're remembering isn't real. You're not there, you're here. John, I'm here." Sherlock soothed.

John breathed out and pushed his head towards Sherlock's neck. The warmth there and the stability that Sherlock provided made John feel somewhat better. The memories weren't going away, but he wasn't as terrified when Sherlock talked to him. John breathed against Sherlock's collar and gripped onto his shirt.

"Sherlock...don't stop talking...please." John whimpered, and then flinched when he saw the butt of a gun coming straight for his head.

"John, you're at Baker Street in London. It's been a year since you were in Afghanistan. You've been solving cases with me for several months. You saved my life and I've saved yours. You are brilliant. You amaze me, John." Sherlock murmured into John's ear.

John would flinch every so often from the horrors of his mind and every time Sherlock would hold his doctor tighter to his chest. John eventually calmed down when the room stopped spinning. Even though his horrors were fading away, he didn't want to leave the comfort of Sherlock's arms. By the time the drug was supposedly out of his system, he felt fatigued and hungry. John slowly sat up and looked at the detective.

"Sherlock..." John rasped.

Frankly, the poor doctor had no idea what to say. Did Sherlock really hold him and comfort him? Joy, terror and shock shot though him like a rocket as he came to a silent realization...John felt a spark of attraction for the detective. A spark that had been deep seated in him since he'd met the man, but denied to himself and to everyone else. The spark was real and very prominent now. John sort of half smiled and realized this: he'd fallen for the great Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Sherlock looked away from John and changed all atmospheric comforts.

"We need to get you something to eat, but first we need to go by Bart's." Sherlock said, changing the direction of the conversation. He pulled back from John and stood up, leaving John to his own devices on the floor.

John nodded and put on his straight face while he stood shakily. His knee was throbbing from crashing down on it earlier and he wished for a second that he could go in the flat and grab a pain killer. That probably wasn't the best idea at the moment... Shaking his head, he decided to walk out the pain and followed Sherlock downstairs to the street.

"We need to get a sample of your blood before the drug is completely out of your system. Then we need to find out how the drug was introduced to you." Sherlock explained as he hailed a cab.

John followed Sherlock in silence into the cab, not really knowing what to say. Sitting back in his seat, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cushion. He had no idea how to go about anything, or whether he really was in love with the elusive consulting detective or it had just been a passing fancy. Oh, who was he kidding? There was no way that it was just passing.

Sherlock watched John for a few moments. He didn't understand what this was he was feeling. Sentiment was something he generally frowned upon. So what was this? He had apologized to John. He had held and comforted him. Why? Yes, John was his friend – his best friend – but that was something he'd never done for a friend. But then again, he wasn't immune to surprising even himself every so often. So he tried to focus on something he did know; figuring out who planted the bomb, who had drugged John, and if the two had anything to do with one another.

While Sherlock was thinking this over, John had his own concerns. He just couldn't help but feel uncomfortable in his seat. Not because of Sherlock's silence, he was accustomed to that. What was uncomfortable was his shoulder. Something pinched and stung almost like a needle. He moved his hand towards his shoulder but couldn't reach. With a sigh he leaned up and sat with his back completely straight. He looked out the window and saw lights passing him and thought about what drew him to the detective. When they finally got to Bart's, Sherlock took them back to the lab.

"John, I need to draw some blood."

John nodded and sat down next to the equipment.

"How many times have you done this?" he asked hesitantly.

"John, I know what I'm doing. Not from drawing blood necessarily, but I have experience."

John just groaned and allowed Sherlock to draw the blood. He trusted the man, but kept an eye out for what was going on.

"Make the tourniquet a little tighter, Sherlock." John corrected.

"Sorry." Sherlock adjusted the tourniquet and made sure it was snug. He had done this kind of thing before, just not for reasons that John would approve.

Sherlock carefully found the proper vein, stuck the needle in, filled the vile, and pulled the needle out. Through the whole process, John kept a straight face and sat patiently through the routine. His face was unreadable (at least he thought it was) and he was calm. When Sherlock wrapped up his arm, he checked the bandages and nodded, not making eye contact with John.

"Nicely done." he praised.

Sherlock only nodded and continued on his analysis.

"How are you feeling now? Dizzy?"

"Just really tired," John replied while shaking his head, "and God, am I hungry."

That comment was almost timed too well, because a few seconds later John's stomach growled loudly.

"There's a place not far from here," Sherlock chuckled, "This will take some time to analyze. Come on."

John stood and nodded at the detective and followed. He was famished and needed food in his system before he turned into a giant grumps. He looked up at the detective and felt his heart beat a little faster. He sort of missed those feelings that Sherlock gave him when he had his arms around him.

"John?" Sherlock asked as they made their way to the little diner. Sherlock needed a few answers, but didn't know where to begin to ask.

"Yes?" John replied.

The pinching in John's shoulder caught his attention once more. It didn't seem to be going away any time soon, and it was sufficiently bothering him then.

"Ugh...damn. Sherlock, could you check my shoulder? There's something there." John asked as he turned his shoulder to the detective. That pinching pain brought on the early feelings of the drug again and John nearly panicked.

Sherlock pulled back John's jacket, and with much protest from John, Sherlock also pulled up John's jumper and looked at the back of John's shoulder carefully. There was a small, dart-like needle buried in his skin, just above his scar. Sherlock quickly pulled it out, slipped it into his pocket and sort of growled. He needed to analyze the drug. Sherlock then looked at John and noticed that the doctor's breathing elevated. He grabbed onto John's arms again.

"John, look at me." Sherlock commanded.

John obeyed. He felt the effects taking over his body, but never took his eyes away from Sherlock.

"John, you're fine. The drug just has to work its way out of your system. You are going to be alright."

Sherlock again wrapped his arms around John and held him close, keeping him off of the ground. John simply nodded and put his face against Sherlock's shoulder. One image of a Taliban jeep later and John wanted to yelp, but covered his mouth. John shook his head and stood straight.

"Sherlock, talk to me, please." John asked with his voice cracking.

"John, I will find whoever did this to you. I swear, even if it kills me, I'll find them. John, you are fine. It's not real. You are in London with me. You're safe."

John relaxed and put his head back against Sherlock's shoulder, but only for a moment.

"Sherlock, I need food. Now." John groused, pushing away his memories, and Sherlock, in order to focus in on his surroundings.

"It's right down the road. Can you walk?"

John nodded and took three steps before landing flat on his face. For some reason, instead of cursing a blue streak like he normally would, John found himself giggling against the pavement because of his own clumsiness. He had tripped on his shoelace.

Sherlock pulled him up to his feet and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"Come on, I've got you. It's not that far away."

Once John caught his breath from feeling Sherlock's arm around him once more, he felt the effects of the drug fade away a little. By the time they were at the diner, John felt better ten-fold and was ready to eat. He looked up at Sherlock, who still had not removed his arm from John's shoulders, and a small blush graced his neck. His solemn expression in the dim light was enough to make John want to smile. Sherlock glanced down at John. The doctor had his color back and was walking fine, but Sherlock didn't remove his arm.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked, with a little warmth in his voice.

"Yes," John nodded, "will be better once I get some food." John was relieved to know that the drug was finally leaving his system. A small smile slid onto his face when he realized that Sherlock had not yet removed his arm.

"We're here." Sherlock announced as they came up to the small diner doors.

The place was small, but it served just about anything you could ever want within reason. Sherlock led them back to a table in the back of the restaurant. At this point, he actually had to let go of John, which he was not happy about.

John noticed hesitancy when Sherlock let go of him. Butterflies infiltrated his belly as he sat across from the slender detective. John breathed out and looked at the menu to see what would fill him up without making him sick. Being a somewhat sensible man, even under the effects of hunger, John chose something cheap and simple; fish and chips with water. Of course, Sherlock glanced down at the menu, but had no intentions of actually eating anything.

"Sherlock," John warned, knowing the detectives habits, "please eat something."

"John..." Sherlock whined like an overgrown child.

"Sherlock, you haven't eaten anything proper in two days. Order something or else." The doctor threatened, trying to sound menacing.

"It's not important, John. I'm fine for another day at least. Plus, I need to think. Eating slows me down. You know this."

"Sherlock, please." John stared down the man hard. He wasn't going to let Sherlock starve himself. Looking at Sherlock's eyes, John frowned. They seemed troubled. John didn't notice when the waitress came by for his order.

"Sherlock, you order first." John stated as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Fine. I'll eat a little." Sherlock sighed. He then ordered the first thing he saw, which was a little Alfredo pasta dish.

John smirked a little behind his menu and ordered spaghetti, forgetting all about his fish and chips, with three different types of shredded cheese over the sauce. After he gave the menu back to the waitress, he quickly put away his smile of victory.

"So, you started to ask me something earlier. What's on your mind?"

Sherlock was fidgeting in his seat, "John?"

"Yes?" John answered, giving all of his attention to the detective.

"I...I don't... I need to ask you about something because until now, I have found any information on the subject useless." Sherlock was stumbling over his own words, which was something he never did. He hated this not knowing or understanding.

John leaned forward on his arms on the table and looked Sherlock Holmes square in the eyes.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, truly concerned at this point.

"Nothing's wrong. I just don't understand...this." Sherlock didn't know how to describe _this_.

"What don't you understand?" John asked, resisting the urge to frown unattractively at the strange thought of Sherlock not understanding something. The only things that the man didn't understand had to do with emotions and…oh.

"This." Sherlock responded, motioning between them, "You are my friend, but I don't feel about you like a friend. At least I don't think so since I've had _so_ much experience."

John didn't know what to say. He wanted to play coy, but the detective would be able to see through him like glass. He sighed and sipped at the water placed before him. He looked up at the detective and raised an eyebrow.

"Is it so wrong, Sherlock?"

"Wrong?" Sherlock was taken aback, "No, John. God no. I don't think it's wrong. I just don't understand it."

John smiled and looked at Sherlock's eyes.

"I know. It is hard to understand. And...if we do...you know...get together...we may never fully understand. But...wouldn't you rather take that chance?"

"I'll be rubbish at it," Sherlock scoffed, "I'll have you running away screaming within the week."

"Have I run away yet?" John laughed, "You don't make a bad flat mate, Sherlock. I'm sure you'll make a good…um… boyfriend as well."

John smiled at Sherlock. The taste of the words "Sherlock" and "Boyfriend" felt strangely pleasant on his tongue.

"Yes, I'd rather see if we could make it work." Sherlock replied quietly.

"Well, there's only one way to know, isn't there?"

"Yes," Sherlock smiled, "I suppose there is."

John smiled and closed his eyes. Things were going much better than planned. Finally their food appeared at their table and John got right too it. Of course, while John ate, Sherlock picked, but there was a small smile on his face. He was happy, yes, but at the same time he was terrified. Everyone who had ever tried to get close to him figured out soon enough that they didn't want to be after some "thought". He didn't know what he would do if John ever finally came to his senses and completely left him and everything that they had been through. Well, that's a lie. He knew exactly what he would do.

John noted Sherlock's stillness. He hoped there wasn't anything wrong with him. Hopefully this was just one of those "quiet Sherlock" moments. All the while that Sherlock was worrying, John had different thoughts. He knew for certain that he had fallen for Sherlock – and fallen soldiers rarely get up. As morbid as it sounded, he knew that phrase to be true. John looked at the detective who was picking away at his pasta.

"Sherlock, eat your food, don't play with it." John said as if Sherlock was a picky child who didn't want his vegetables.

Sherlock took a few bites, hoping it would appease John. He waited for the doctor to finish while he thought over the case. It was fairly obvious who had drugged John. He just needed to analyze the needle and John's blood to see exactly what it was.

All the while Sherlock was thinking of the case, John thought about the day as he ate. In the course of one afternoon, he'd fought with Sherlock, went _to_ the museum with Sherlock, fled _from_ the museum with Sherlock, been drugged, cared for by Sherlock, allowed Sherlock to take blood from his body, was practically carried into a restaurant by Sherlock, then entered a new relationship with Sherlock. John was sensing a pattern there. Thinking about this made John smile, but the smile was soon dragged down as he thought about how his current, err, previous romantic interest, Sarah, would take the news. A new doubt popped up in his mind, but John pushed it away and focused on the slender wonder before him.

"John, I hate to rush you, but if you are quite finished we need to get back to Bart's." Sherlock said when John appeared to be finished eating.

"Yeah," John nodded, "Sorry. Almost forgot about that."

John pulled out his wallet to pay for the meals and neatly folded his napkin at his plate. Sherlock walked to the door and waited for his (_ahem, first_) boyfriend. He couldn't help but smile when he saw the expression on John's face. There was just this look of real joy there. However, something else shadowed the man's face. It wasn't hard to guess for the detective. John was going to have to come to terms with entering a relationship with another man and figure out what to do about Sarah.

John handed the waitress the signed receipt and smiled slightly as he walked out the door. All worries almost vaporized as he walked to the door where his Sherlock was waiting patiently. He looked into those eyes and remembered the first time he met the great man at Bart's.

"So what are you going to tell Sarah?" Sherlock asked without any preamble.

John breathed out, "That, I don't know. She won't be happy, I'm sure."

Sherlock sighed. He was a little disappointed that John hadn't just said 'To Hell with her,' but then again that wasn't something his John would do.

"Do you regret this?" the detective then asked, rather quietly.

"What? Hell no. Sherlock Holmes, if I weren't in agreement with this, do you think I'd still be standing here?" John asked. He knew that Sherlock was just every bit as terrified as he was, and even more so, but John the army doctor decided to remain strong and steady for them both.

"No, I suppose not." Sherlock smirked as they walked back to St. Bart's.

John smiled as he walked and looked up at the street lights. Despite the fact that it was only four in the afternoon, the lights were on. It was mostly calm in the streets and promised a storm to come crashing in soon enough. Suddenly, John's coat pocket vibrated. It was Sarah calling. With a sigh, John answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"John, hello. I was wondering if you were alright. I saw on the news-"

"Oh, yeah. We're fine, all fine. Uh, listen, Sarah, there was something I need to talk with you about."

John glanced up at Sherlock, hoping for support. Of course, Sherlock held his hand out for the phone. Sherlock wanted to do this himself. John sighed and closed his eyes.

"Sherlock, I need to..." John stopped and looked at Sherlock's expectant gaze, "Never mind."

Sherlock got the phone.

"Hello, Sarah. I hate to inform you that John will no longer be available for anymore dates. Terribly sorry." Sherlock said with a small smirk.

"And why is that?" Sarah asked, infuriated.

"Because he will be too busy going on them with me. Have a nice day."

Sherlock hung up the phone before she could reply and handed the mobile back to John.

"Problem solved." he said with a smug grin.

John pressed his lips together in an effort not to laugh.

"That wasn't kind, Sherlock." John managed through smothered chuckles. After a moment of composure he breathed and looked up at his detective.

"That was not kind."

The grin fell from Sherlock's wan face.

"I know. I just thought about her being with you and..." Sherlock trailed off, looking away from the good doctor.

John placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Hey, look at me."

Sherlock looked down at John. He didn't seem angry. John gently squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. He knew that Sherlock was very new to this relationship thing. No matter. The veteran would guide his new sweetheart patiently.

"We're in this together now. Ok? Everything is ok." John smiled at Sherlock, "It wouldn't have worked out with her anyways."


	3. Chapter 3

"_This is going to be more difficult than I initially thought_." Sherlock thought to himself.

Sherlock was walking alongside John and focused ahead. The wind began to bite at his ears, so he turned up his collar. John did the same and they shuffled a little closer to block the wind. John could feel his nerves double up as they walked so close that they were almost touching. Sherlock suddenly stopped.

"John…" Sherlock started.

"Yes?"

"Are you really sure about this?" Sherlock's face was expressionless, but his eyes betrayed him.

John looked into those blue-grey eyes and felt a sense of comfort that he didn't know before. He then gave Sherlock a positive smile and a genteel nod. Sherlock returned one nod and looked back ahead to their destination. They were both sure about their new relationship. Sherlock decided that it was enough for him.

That doubt popped into John's head again and it was a little harder to ignore this time around. Sherlock still looked troubled and John found The Doubt extremely troubling. Perhaps it would go away with time. He turned his focus back to getting to Bart's. They were almost there, so soon he would have something else to focus on. John walked alongside Sherlock and remained quiet. He didn't know how to go about getting through to Sherlock. John needed a moment to himself to sort out his thoughts. He also needed to set a cool cloth on his face, if that said anything."

"Sherlock, I'll meet you in the lab. Going to the loo really quickly."

Sherlock nodded and went into the lab on his own. He started to run an analysis on the blood and dart, which wasn't a very difficult process, so he found himself thinking about John. There were so many things to think about with the shorter man. The way he walked was one. He walked several different ways. There was the relaxed walk, which Sherlock usually saw when they were in the flat after a long day. Then there was the military walk, which John acquired when they were on a case or he had somewhere important to be. The other walk that Sherlock could think of right away was the annoyed walk, which made its presence known when Sherlock was either experimenting with body parts or when Sherlock was significantly stroppy. Sherlock smiled slightly and looked back down at the drug analysis.

After a few minutes in the loo, John decided that he walk calm again and his problems were strictly imaginary. Sherlock had chosen _him_ of all people. Why should he worry? Well, no, don't answer that one. John quickly walked back to the lab and watched Sherlock from the door. That familiar sight made the doctor smile. His mind went back to their first meeting, when he noticed the man. He was just as beautiful then as he appeared now. He walked behind Sherlock and watched what he was doing.

"Any luck yet?"

"The drug was a form of LSD. You shouldn't have any serious problems from it now, though." Sherlock looked up from the microscope then and stood in front of John, "I am sorry. For earlier. Not for her sake, but yours."

John shook his head, "Don't apologize. All is well. It's ok."

John looked up at Sherlock. The dim fluorescent lights brought out the pale elegance in Sherlock's skin. John blushed a little as he reached out for Sherlock's hand and held the slender fingers in his grasp. Sherlock looked down and held John's hand for only a moment, but then let it go. He then proceeded to wrap his arms around John and he held his doctor close and buried his face in John's hair. John breathed in and wrapped his strong arms around the detective. The smell and heartbeat of the detective made John relax and feel at home. John held Sherlock close and gently ran his fingers around the detective's shoulders.

Sherlock could have stayed like this forever; just holding and breathing in his blogger. His John. Sherlock pulled his head back and put their foreheads together. John breathed in and looked into Sherlock's eyes. A small smile played at his lips as he looked into the beauty of the man that never failed to amaze him. Sherlock took one hand and put it on the back of John's head, running his fingers through the short thick hair there. John felt his pulse quicken as he breathed in. The feeling of Sherlock's fingers in his hair sent shivers down his spine. John wrapped his arms around and up to rest his forearms on Sherlock's shoulders. John closed his eyes and breathed in the cool scent of Sherlock.

Sherlock's pulse was racing. He wanted to lean in and place his lips against John's, but something stopped him. Fear.

"It's alright, Sherlock. Everything is alright. Believe me." John whispered, wanting Sherlock to learn.

Fear that if something happened, that if John ever came to his senses and found someone better, that he would not be able to come back from that pain. John brought Sherlock back by rubbing his cheek and caressing the smooth curls of his hair.

"Believe me. It's alright." John breathed.

Sherlock's heart was racing so quickly that he felt as if it would completely stop. Gathering his strength and quelling his nerves, Sherlock gently pressed his lips against John's in a very small, very chaste kiss. John felt the breath escape him as he returned the small kiss. His heart simply fluttered in that small, perfect, beautiful kiss. It was not like anything he'd ever had before; it was better. John looked into Sherlock's eyes and rubbed his arms warmly. Sherlock pulled back, a small smile of joy on his lips. But that smile fell when he thought of something that would ruin his moment.

"I'm sorry if that wasn't what you were expecting." Sherlock mumbled.

John sighed, "Sherlock, I have learned to never expect anything ordinary from you. That kiss was not ordinary. That's good. Believe me, Sherlock."

To help Sherlock ease his troubled mind, John ran his fingers in Sherlock's mess of curls and pressed their foreheads together.

"John, I honestly don't have any idea what I'm doing. I will need some...guidance...in several areas. This would be one of those areas."

"Well, first of all, that was a very good start. Second, we need to finish up out work here so we can get back to the flat. Any questions that you have, please, ask me. Not your brother, not Lestrade, and certainly not Molly. Ask me."

"I will. I'm finished here if you want to leave now. I know all I need to know."

John nodded and hugged Sherlock close before letting go so that Sherlock could finish doing what he started. John felt his heart pounding and his stomach fluttering. A mixture of nerves and excitement rattled him as he stood to the side. Sherlock quickly collected all of his samples and data. He grabbed his coat and scarf quickly putting both on. He turned back to John.

"Ready?"

"Ready." John nodded and offered a polite smile.

Sherlock returned the smile and walked out of Bart's with a breath of relief. As they were trying to hail a cab, Sherlock spoke up.

"I wonder what damage that lovely bomber left us at our flat. It had better not have damaged any of my experiments or my skull."

"Or my laptop. Who would do this anyways?"

"Someone who wants to be recognized and not my problem right now. What is my problem is filing charges against the man who drugged you."

"And who would that be?"

Sherlock grinned, "Think about it, John. Really think."

"Griffin."

"Precisely. Shouldn't be too hard to charge him, dishonorably discharged, and possibly serve time in prison. His record already stands against him."

"His record?"

"You don't think that he would take a position at the museum voluntarily, do you? He was ordered here when his superiors found out that what happened to you was his fault? This was his way of getting back at you. Make you relive the worst experiences of your life."

John thought about it and sighed.

"Yeah. We didn't call him 'Griffin the Git' for nothing." John remarked.

In the silence, John walked a little closer to Sherlock as they made their way back to Baker Street.

"John," Sherlock started a few moments later, "are you still feeling fine? Nothing from earlier? It should be out of your system by now, but I'm just making sure."

"Yes, just tired now. Let me ask you; how are you feeling? Are you ok?"

John looked at Sherlock and breathed out. He seemed troubled. John decided that once they got back to the flat, he'd fix a cuppa for himself and one for Sherlock. Maybe a little caffeine would be beneficial for them both.

"Yes, fine. I am completely fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock fibbed.

Sometimes it was funny how bad a liar Sherlock was. John smiled to himself.

"Alright, let me rephrase that. What's on your mind, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned red, which, with his pale complexion, was very obvious.

"Nothing. I wasn't thinking about anything."

Of course John knew all too well that wasn't possible. John sighed as he pulled out his keys. He finally noticed that they had walked all the way back to the flat from Bart's. As he unlocked the door, he looked at Sherlock's red cheeks, which, in turn, made him blush.

"What's troubling you? Don't tell me there isn't anything, because you know as well as I do that you're a bloody terrible liar. Great actor, yes, but you're bad liar."

"Really, nothing is wrong. There's just some...research I need to do." Sherlock's face turned even redder than before, if that were even possible.

John sighed and decided to just let it be. Sherlock would talk when he wanted to.

"Alright. Just, let me know if you need me."

As they walked up the stairs, John noticed how the flat had cleared a bit. When John opened the door, they found the room aired out and minimal damage done to their possessions. John walked to the kitchen and started a kettle.

Sherlock found his laptop, went to the sofa, and settled in. He actually was researching something; it just wasn't something he wanted to tell John. The doctor had told him not to ask for advice from anyone other than him, and that left him with few options. All the while, John was in the kitchen and fixed two mugs of tea. After adding in the cream and sugar, John took them to the living room and offered Sherlock his mug.

Seeing John come up to him, Sherlock closed his laptop quickly and just as quickly took the mug from the doctor.

"Thank you."

John looked at him curiously and sat in his chair with his mug.

"So, how are we going to find the bomber?" John asked while sipping at his coffee.

That same doubt from earlier popped back into his mind and persisted. That what if. What if Sherlock, the man who needed constant mind work to function, would get bored with John? What if John couldn't be enough for the great mind and would be cast aside? He wouldn't be able to deal with that kind of pain. What Sherlock didn't realize, much like John, was that the doctor had been harboring feelings for the man since their first case together. Sarah had just been a distraction to him.

"I've got nothing to go on." Sherlock replied, pulling John back to Earth, "Plus, if Lestrade doesn't ask for my help, it is none of my concern."

Sherlock sat his computer down beside the sofa and patted the cushion next to him, to which, John got up and sat beside his detective. Holding his coffee mug very carefully, John sunk down into the cushions beside his Sherlock. Sherlock then reached his arm around John and pulled him closer. He found the hand that wasn't occupied by a mug and threaded their fingers together.

John blushed and felt his body fill with butterflies. Taking the opportunity while he could, John rested his head against the detective's strong shoulder. Sherlock kissed the top of John's head and breathed him in.

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly after a couple of moments.

"Yes?" John replied with a sigh of content.

"Something has been bothering me." Sherlock began.

John listened attentively.

"When we first met, you said you weren't gay. You have maintained that you aren't gay, and even went so far as to date Sarah. So was all that a lie to hide the truth? Is is this a cruel joke, or a dream that I will wake up from, and nothing would have changed between us?"

John nuzzled his head beneath Sherlock's chin and sighed,

"Well, a man can only lie to himself for so long. Eventually, the truth catches up to him, and he must maintain the lie to protect himself and others. Sherlock, if this is a dream, we'll both wake up disappointed. And I can assure you, this is no joke. Joking about something like this is just wrong."

John set his mug down and held both of Sherlock's hands.

"Are you following me?"

Sherlock grinned, "Yes, I believe I am."

"Good." John said as he stroked Sherlock's hair back to see his clear eyes.

With a small smile, John kissed Sherlock's cheek and got up to take the dirty mugs into the kitchen to be washed.

"Leave it. They won't mold over in the next few minutes." Sherlock said, pulling John back.

He was just being his usual pouty self. He had been warm and comfortable, and then John had to go and move from his spot. John smiled and set the mugs down on the coffee table.

"Alright, I'm sorry." John apologized as he sat down with open arms.

Sherlock happily settled in them. Now he was the one who had his face against John's good shoulder.

"My John." he murmured quietly.

John smiled and settled his face into Sherlock's curls. Breathing in his unique scent, John closed his eyes.

"My Sherlock." he replied softly.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock started fidgeting beneath John.

"John, I'm in a bit of an awkward situation, and I will need some help." Sherlock mumbled a bit sheepishly. He was quite glad that his face was buried in John's comfortable chest. John looked down at his new sweetheart's tousled hair.

"What do you need help with?" he asked, slightly oblivious.

"It was mentioned earlier today. Think about it, and make a deduction." Sherlock was still speaking into John's chest.

John really thought, and hoped. Hoped and discouraged the thought of a "need" for Sherlock. Yes, the thought attracted him, but it would be a first for the both of them and they had just started off together not an hour ago. John put his face in Sherlock's hair and breathed. John pressed his lips against Sherlock's head and fought urge to yawn.

"Please, tell me." John yawned.

Sherlock looked up at John's face. He looked completely worn out. Sherlock sighed and chuckled a little. He then sat up and kissed the top of John's head.

"Go to bed, love."

"Are you coming with me, or are we waiting for that for a later date?" John mumbled sleepily against Sherlock's neck.

"I will, but only to sleep. You need some rest." Sherlock replied, again, turning pink at the thought.

"I will, I will." with a little blush, John looked at Sherlock, "So, uh, my bed or yours?"

"It doesn't look like you would do too well on the stairs at the moment, so my room seems to be the best option."

John nodded and stood to walk out of the room, his hand still on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I promise there are no experiments in there."

John chuckled and squeezed his shoulder, "Don't be too long."

With a soft kiss on Sherlock's head, John walked back to the room and laid out on the bed after removing his shoes. Sherlock knew that sleep was a lost cause, but he went to his room about ten minutes after his blogger. John was already asleep still fully clothed on top of the covers. Sherlock found a blanket and placed it gently over John, careful not to wake him. He then laid next to him, watching the slow rise and fall of his back.

John slept peacefully for the first few hours, but then he started dreaming. No nightmares like usual. No nightmares that kept him awake at night, wishing for a way to bring back his fallen comrades. Only dreams that made him wonder what in the world really went on in his head. Later, around four in the morning, John woke up to see Sherlock lying beside him, still awake.

"Hmm. Sherlock?"

"Good morning, John. You slept well."

It wasn't a question. Sherlock had watched his doctor all night and there were no signs of John's usual night terrors. John nodded sleepily and wound an arm around his detective's waist.

"Yeah, your bed is comfy." John mumbled against Sherlock's chest, "Why didn't you sleep?"

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's back.

"I had something more entertaining. Sleep is dull."

John chuckled a bit, "Sleep is vital."

Pulling himself and Sherlock up into a sitting position on the bed, John pulled Sherlock to his good shoulder and tangled his hand into Sherlock's curls. The feeling of Sherlock against his shoulder was something he never knew he liked.

"So, have you heard anything at all?"

"John, as _hard_ _working_ as our police force down at the Yard is, I doubt they go to work at four in the morning."

John shook his head. "Sorry. That's the, uh, sleep talking."

"It's fine," Sherlock laughed, "You can sleep more if you need it."

John nodded and took the offer readily. Snuggling down against Sherlock's body, the doctor was asleep in a matter of minutes. Sherlock smiled and held John in his arms. He looked so much younger when he slept. As if none of the horrors of war could have happened to him. Much to Sherlock's surprise, he felt himself getting sleepy.

John savored the feeling of finally being held himself. Of finally being wanted. His nightmares couldn't reach him, and even if they did, he knew Sherlock would protect him. A few hours later, they were both awoken by Sherlock's phone ringing.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade wanted to see them both. Apparently, the bomber had left something for Sherlock.

Sherlock hung up the phone quickly and stood from the bed, leaving John cold. John whined a little from the lack of warmth and curled in on the blankets and pressed his face into the mattress.

"Come on, John. We don't have time to be stubborn." Sherlock chided while lying out fresh clothes for himself.

With a sigh, John stretched out and went up to his room quickly to change. He knew he should have taken a shower, but apparently they didn't have time to be stubborn _or_ hygienic. Thankfully he had just enough time to brush his teeth. This would bother the doctor for the next few hours until he could clean himself properly. Sherlock may have been lean and not prone to sweating in heat, but John was, and a shower was definitely in order. Once he got downstairs, he looked out the window and saw Sherlock ready with a taxi. John ran down the stairs in a flash and bolted into the cab and sat beside his detective.

"While we're there, we can formally charge Major Griffin, if you want."

"That would be nice, thank you." John replied, putting his hand beside him.

At this motion, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and intertwined their fingers. John breathed in and watched the familiar sights of London passing by as they rode along. John simply watched and rubbed his thumb along Sherlock's hand. When they finally arrived at Scotland Yard they were met by Lestrade, who quickly took them back to his office in a flurry. Sherlock pulled his hand out of John's and walked a few paces ahead to get into Lestrade's office.

"What exactly did the bomber leave for me? You didn't say over the phone."

"You like funny cases don't you?" Lestrade replied, "The surprising ones. Well, this, the explosion, wasn't a gas leak; made to look like one. Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box – a very strong box. And inside of it was this."

Lestrade pulled out an envelope that was addressed to Sherlock. John's body went cold.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked, examining the envelope.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it? We've had it x-rayed, and it's not booby trapped."

John watched Sherlock work at the envelope, opening it with precaution. John only realized that he was holding his breath when he felt his lungs constraining under the pressure.

"How reassuring." Sherlock droned, "Nice stationary. Bohemian, from the Czech Republic. No finger prints? She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, meridian nib."

"She?" John asked.

"Obviously." Sherlock cut open the envelope and pulled out a pink iPhone.

"It's not obvious to me." John muttered before seeing the phone, "That's the phone. The pink phone."

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone," Sherlock corrected, "but someone tried very hard to make it look like the same one."

Sherlock examined the phone. It was brand new. No signs of use. Just then, it received a text message. There were five pips and a photograph of a room. John looked over Sherlock's shoulder at the phone (which was a great feat) and listened to Lestrade.

"Well, what the hell are we supposed to make of that? The state agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips."

John looked at Sherlock, knowing the detective would have some sort of random knowledge that would apply to the situation.

"It's a warning. Some secret societies used to use dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again. I've seen this place before."

John looked over the picture and noticed that the layout looked exactly like the flat beneath theirs at Baker Street.

"Oh, and Lestrade, before we go check this place out, we need to go to a museum." Sherlock said, continuing on his way.

Lestrade looked at the consulting detective as if he'd grown an extra mouth.

"Why the hell do you want to go to a museum at a time like this?"

"Because a man that works there, Major Griffin, drugged John yesterday. I have the dart with the drug and an analysis of John's blood if your people want to take a look." Sherlock said, and without realizing what he was doing, placed a protective hand on John's arm.

John felt the heat rising up on his neck as he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm. Lestrade, on the other hand, was not surprised by the turn of events and nodded at the pair.

"Just let me know who he is, and we'll take care of it right away."

"Or I could just take you to him. I want to be there when you arrest him."

Anger glinted in Sherlock's eyes as he mentioned that last detail. Arrest was not exactly what he wanted to happen to the man, but it was the legal alternative.

"Don't worry, Inspector. I promise not to kill him."

That sounded exactly like what he wanted to do to him.

John gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, hoping to bring him out of his angry high.

"We'll observe from behind, alright?" John said patiently to Sherlock, all but forgetting that there was a crowded building of workers behind them. Lestrade agreed to going with them to the museum as he gathered his belongings and walked out with the two men in suit.

"Sherlock, are you going to be alright?" John asked quietly as he kept a tender hand on Sherlock's back.

"He hurt you, John, and I want to hurt him. What he did is inexcusable, and arrest doesn't seem like enough."

John sighed and shook his head.

"Believe me, Sherlock, prison to him would be bad enough. No matter what rank he is, he will always be a mummy's boy and going to prison would pretty much ruin his life as far as he's concerned."

"That's not enough for me." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

John nodded as he got into the car with his sweetheart.

"I know. It'll all be sorted out."

Lestrade spoke up from the driver's seat.

"So, tell me about this man, Sherlock. I know you have something on him or some kind of theory."

"Which man? The bomber or the Major?" He had a theory for both men.

"The Major."

Sherlock looked down at his blogger. If John was fine with just an arrest, then he supposed it would have to be enough for him. He kissed the side of John's head before noticing that Lestrade was watching them. He felt himself turn red in the cheeks. Well, he wouldn't be the only one to be "outed" so to speak.

"How is my dear brother, Lestrade?"

"Fine, as far as I know. He's worried about you almost all the time." Lestrade replied, looking back on the road with a small blush in his cheeks. His speech patterns mimicked Mycroft's and he knew it.

John listened in and noticed how Mycroft's tone had rubbed off on the DI. Typical Mycroft. He then blushed a nice shade of pink when he realized that Lestrade had seen Sherlock's sweet kiss. A small smile splayed across John's mouth as he thought of Sherlock. He was finally adjusting and John was quite glad for that. With a smile, he placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's cheek and looked ahead. Sherlock continued on with his earlier deduction once everyone was refocused.

"He has a god complex. He enjoys having control or power over others. That's why he joined the army; not out of love for Queen and Country. He purposefully put his men in danger to feel as though he controlled who lived and who died. He shouldn't have ever been promoted, but because he was such a good leader, his superiors ignored his narcissistic power complex.

"However, after John's accident, they looked into his performance records. Probably because John was only one rank under him. Probably there was absolutely no reason for John to be on the front lines that day. What they found was that more people died while under his command than should have. And, like John, men that hand no reason to be there were injured if not killed because he had ordered them there.

"He was taken out of active service and sent home. They placed him in a position at the museum. He was planning on coming after John. In his mind, John was responsible for his demotion. When he saw John at the museum, he took the opportunity to drug him. His plan was to find him and kill him while John was too weak to defend himself. Obviously, he failed. He had not expected anyone to be with John."

Lestrade sat in the front of the car with his jaw unhinged and hanging open. Sherlock got all of that just by looking at the bloody bastard? John simply listened in and everything clicked together perfectly, the way things usually did when Sherlock made deductions. John remembered all the times when he and the other soldiers were over-burdened or abused by the Major. Those were, without a doubt, the worst days of his military career. John leaned back against his seat and stared straight ahead. Sherlock was right. He usually was.

Lestrade looked back at Sherlock's face and felt sympathy-fear for the man that drugged John. He felt more anger, though, at the fact that someone who was supposed to be of a high rank would hurt one of his friends. Now that John had been involved in cases and kept Sherlock under a watchful eye, Lestrade considered him to be a good man. And for that, the man who hurt his friend would worry least about his title once the DI got a hold of him.

While Lestrade was on a mental tangent, John was calming himself by thinking about the way that Sherlock looked in the grey London light and the way Sherlock's lips felt against his head. A silly smile played at John's lips as he thought and he tried his best to remain stoic in the dark situation.

Sherlock was looking out the window of the cab, but he wasn't seeing anything. He was trying not to think about what he would have done if he hadn't gone with John. If he hadn't stopped John from storming out. If he hadn't made sure that John was with him. John probably would have gone anyways, and he would be dead. He would never have known how John felt for him. He would have found out too late how _he_ felt. That enough would cause him to use drugs again, attempt suicide again, or both. Realizing all of these things, Sherlock felt around for John's hand and grabbed it, holding on as tightly as possible without hurting John.

John felt Sherlock's hand latch onto his own and he gently held the slender hand and rubbed along the back with his thumb. He could tell that Sherlock was focusing intently on the issues at hand and was stressing himself out. He looked into Sherlock's face and studied his expression. There was a lot more going on in Sherlock's mind and that was dangerous. What John did start thinking about was how if Sherlock hadn't stayed by him, if he hadn't followed him, he would be dead. John was extremely thankful that Sherlock hadn't given up on him.

John gently pulled Sherlock's hand into both of his hands and rested their hands on his knee. Sherlock looked down at their joined hands and smiled ever so slightly. His gaze then traveled up to John's eyes. Then he did something that neither one of them would have ever expected.

Sherlock kissed John quickly on the lips. Once. Twice. Three times. He finally was able to pull himself back after the sound of a throat clearing in the front of the car. John almost didn't know how to react. He quickly kissed Sherlock back each time that they met. John could feel his pulse quicken under the sudden affection and he managed to slow his breathing after a couple of beats. When Sherlock pulled away, John's face was scarlet. Lestrade, who was still silently driving, was just as red as he tried to ignore the PDA in the back seat.

"Sorry. I don't know what came over me." Sherlock blushed.

John tried to calm himself as he squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"Well, I can't say that I minded." John smiled.

Lestrade, who was sufficiently embarrassed by the turn of events, cleared his throat again as they pulled up to the museum. Sherlock climbed out of the car and took a calming breath. They were there to arrest Major Griffin. That's what they were here for. He walked past Lestrade on his way into the museum.

"Sorry about that." Sherlock mumbled.

"If you must do it, please don't in my car. People might talk." Lestrade muttered as he walked with his head down.

"People do little else." Sherlock retorted.

John caught up to Sherlock and marched in with the two men to see Major Griffin at the cafe, chatting up a barista. Lestrade looked at the man and then back to John as if asking for conformation. John nodded and stood with Sherlock as Lestrade marched up to the man with a pair of handcuffs.

Sherlock smirked at the sight. He watched as Lestrade cuffed the Major then looked down at John. His expression was one of relief as they both knew that Griffin wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else. When Lestrade was taking him out to his car, Sherlock walked over with purpose and his usual cold expression.

"May I have a word with Major Griffin?" Sherlock practically growled.

"You get three minutes maximum." Lestrade replied as he stepped aside.

"That will be more than enough time, Inspector." Sherlock replied with a smirk.

Lestrade shook his head and walked over to John, noticing the confused yet exasperated look on his face.

"How long?" Lestrade asked.

"Hm?"

"How long have you and Sherlock been keeping this secret?"

"Uh, since yesterday." John replied.

"Oh. Saw it coming." Lestrade mumbled.

Sherlock stared down the Major as he walked to the car, his expression cold as ice. The three men all knew what was coming. Or, at least part of it.

"We met yesterday, but we didn't really get the full introduction, did we? Sherlock Holmes – Consulting Detective. You see, Major, I can read people. Oh, the things I can read from you. You've never had a steady relationship because you are abusive. You like to think you are strong, but you prey on the weak and innocent. You drugged John because you knew that you wouldn't be able to kill him otherwise. You, sir, are pathetic." Sherlock spat out the last word.

Sherlock was glaring at the man so intensely that John thought Sherlock's vein on his neck would burst.

"Oh, and one more thing."

Two jaws dropped and one popped out of place when Sherlock landed a punch on the Major.

"No one..._no one_...hurts _my_ boyfriend."

Sherlock turned and walked back over to Lestrade with the same air of confidence as before.

"He's all yours, Inspector."

John looked on in shock and awe with a grin threatening to splay across his face as he felt a rumble of laughter roll through his body. This, however, was extremely inappropriate and John did his best to hold his composure. Lestrade, however, was ruthlessly grinning as he put the Major in the police car without hesitation.

"Thanks, Sherlock. Text the address of that place on your phone and I will see you there." And with that, the DI and the ex-Major were gone.

John turned and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug.

"Sherlock, that was bloody brilliant!" John laughed into Sherlock's shoulder. He then took Sherlock's hand and inspected the knuckles. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Not at all. Come on, we have a little time before Lestrade will be able to meet up with us. Do you want to go back to the flat or get something to eat? And no, I will not eat anything."

"I know you won't," John sighed, "I do need to go back to the flat and freshen up a bit. You practically dragged me out of bed this morning."

Sherlock chuckled a bit and flagged down a taxi and told it to head to 221B Baker Street. After they got in, John found himself completely comfortable. He was thinking of all of the things that he would do once they got to the flat. His plans were as follows: Shower, shave, brush teeth again, kiss Sherlock, make tea, kiss Sherlock again, go with Lestrade and Sherlock downstairs, thank Sherlock for everything, and maybe even kiss Sherlock again.

Sherlock sent a text to Lestrade while they were in the cab and told him to meet them at Baker Street. The picture was of 221C Baker Street. The rest of the time they spent until getting into the flat, Sherlock spent studying John.

John felt slightly shy as he went about his duties. Once he got in the shower, the only thing on his mind was Sherlock. A blush rose to his cheeks as he imagined Sherlock accidentally walking in. John closed his eyes and pushed such adolescent thoughts away and refocused on what he was doing. When he got out of the shower and finished his other duties, John skidded into the living room and surprise kissed Sherlock right on that high cheek bone.

After John's lips separated from Sherlock's cheek, John looked up to see Mycroft sitting across from Sherlock with an eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lips. John was absolutely frozen like that; his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and his face close to Sherlock's head while the British Government sat across from them with a cup of tea in his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello my lovely readers. I'm going ahead and posting the next two chapters because me (and my wonderful friend GivenThePuzzleIWillDance) will be gone for the next week, and will not have access to any technology. :/**

**Enjoy. **

"Hello, John. I see you and Sherlock have finally made that happy announcement." Mycroft practically purred with the satisfaction of the _I-Told-You-So_ moment that was clearly splayed across his face.

At any other moment, Sherlock would be thrilled by being kissed, (or by kissing), by John, but not then. Not with his git of a big brother sitting across from him looking so smug. Like the bloody Cheshire Cat, he was.

"No." came like ice from Sherlock's mouth.

John took that "no" and let it sit in his stomach like a blow. Realizing his compromising position, John corrected himself, stood straight and nodded at Mycroft before dismissing himself into the kitchen. John was slightly confused but decided to make himself a cuppa tea move himself away from his emotions.

"It's only Mycroft." John thought to himself, "It's only Mycroft. It's only My..."

The childish feud between those two was not what bothered John. It was just that blunt "No" that flew from Sherlock's lips. John decided he'd find out what was going on.

Mycroft was staring Sherlock down and sighed.

"Never mind your usual antics, dear brother. This is of national importance. Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends, civil servant was found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in. MOD is working on a new missile defense system and the Bruce Partington Program, it's called. The plans were followed on a memory stick. It is now missing. Sherlock, you've got to find those plans."

Mycroft explained all of this while glancing at John in the kitchen every so often, feeling remorse for his little brother's behavior.

"Maybe you didn't hear me correctly. The answer is no. Goodbye, Mycroft."

Sherlock stood and crossed over to the window where his violin was laying. He picked it up with such care that one would think he was sentimental. Placing the chin piece under his jaw, Sherlock tuned the instrument as if to produce a beautiful melody, but then abused everyone's ears by pulling the bow across the strings in an ear splitting screech.

John nodded to Mycroft as the "British Government" made his way to the door.

"Help him with his consideration." Mycroft muttered to John as he left.

John simply nodded and stayed in the kitchen, obviously _not_ contemplating _anything_. Sherlock noted his brother's departure and put down his violin with care and walked into the kitchen.

"John?" he called out somewhat tentatively.

"Yes?" John replied solemnly, looking up from his tea. There was absolutely no emotion in his voice or face. He maintained that starch attitude because he was not keen on revealing his true emotions. He wasn't even sure what his true emotions were.

Sherlock could see clearly that John was hurt and hiding it.

"Oh for God's sakes, I was talking to my insufferable brother, not you."

Sherlock took a step towards John, but didn't touch him, not knowing how it would be received at the moment.

"Great timing then." John replied a bit sarcastically.

John shook his head and let it go. Why should he be upset with Sherlock? There was no call for his fussiness and he decided to just drop it. John stood and walked to Sherlock.

"Got to work on your timing, Love." John whispered.

"Ah, one of the many things I need to work on." Sherlock agreed, pulling John closer to him, still looking down at the doctor's face.

John could feel his pulse quicken. Sherlock looked incredibly handsome and beautiful right above him in the dimmed room. John felt the need for Sherlock's lips to be placed against his. So, naturally, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled their heads closer together.

Sherlock took the hint and pressed their lips together. This, however, wasn't a small or quick peck on the lips. This was a real kiss where both men realized how much they really wanted to feel the heat of their bodies closer to one another. Each parting of their lips brought on another soft groan or sigh. They kissed one another until they were both breathless.

When John came up for air, he was breathing as if he'd run around London and his heart was beating so hard he could feel his chest itself thudding to the rhythm. John simply rubbed Sherlock's arms and smiled sheepishly.

"Well, you've got that down." John whispered.

"At least I got that right." Sherlock grinned.

John chuckled and gently kissed Sherlock again. John had just wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle when the heard a knock at their door. Sherlock groaned and kissed John once more, knowing that they wouldn't have the chance for a while, before reluctantly letting him go. Lestrade was at the door.

"One moment, Lestrade. I will need to get the key from Mrs. Hudson."

John walked to the stairs with Lestrade to get ready for the case. Once Sherlock got the key from their landlady, she followed to see what was happening. No one was really listening as she rattled on about the difficulty of selling this flat. It was no offense against her; they just had more concerning things on their minds. When they entered the flat, it was empty except for a pair of shoes in the middle of the floor.

John looked at the shoes curiously. Why would the bomber leave tennis shoes? John watched as Sherlock moved towards them and his protective instincts kicked in.

"He's a bomber, remember." John warned.

Sherlock took the advice and practically laid flat on the floor to look at the shoes. A split second later everyone in the room sucked in their breath when the pink phone rang. Sherlock relaxed and closed his eyes while standing. He took out the phone and answered the call.

"Hello?"

"H...h...hello...sexy." a woman on the other end cried.

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked.

"I sent you a little puzzle just to say hi."

"Who's talking, why are you crying?"

"I...I'm not crying. I'm typing and this stupid...bitch...is reading it aloud."

Sherlock stared into the wall and his eyes bored into something non-existent.

"The curtain rises..." Sherlock mumbled. He'd known something was coming, and he had suspected this may have been his work. Well, here was his proof.

"What?" John asked, hearing the detective.

"Nothing. I've been expecting this for some time." Sherlock replied to the doctor, not turning around to him.

"Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock," the woman cried, "Or I'm going...to be so...naughty."

The line disconnected.

"What do you plan to do?" Lestrade asked.

"What choice do I have? Solve his puzzle." Sherlock replied while picking up the shoes and examined them. "I need to get these to Bart's. Come on, John. I'll send word when I have found something, Inspector." Sherlock informed while spinning sound and walking out of the room.

John nodded to the Inspector and hauled after Sherlock, following him up the street to see that Sherlock had already hailed a cab.

"We only have twelve hours, John. Come on." Sherlock practically barked.

John practically did a Superman into the cab and settled in beside his lover. There were shades of excitement underlining Sherlock's face and John felt like he was part of action once again. John wondered how Sherlock was going to manage taking on a case of bloody shoes in just twelve hours. But he didn't worry himself too much.

"_Sherlock can do anything_." John thought to himself, "_Anything but shop_."

Sherlock studied the shoes. Why shoes? What were they supposed to mean? There was mud on the soles, so that would need analyzing. They needed to get to Bart's right then and the cabby was so bloody slow... He wasn't concerned about the woman, but was excited to finally have an interesting case, and he was definitely not bored.

As they pulled into Bart's John swung the door open and climbed out with Sherlock, ready to follow him anywhere. When they got to the lab, John sat on the extra stool and watched Sherlock jump right into his work.

Sherlock was immediately on the case as he scraped the soil off of the shoes to be analyzed and looking over every detail of the shoes. He was looking into the microscope when he saw John walking towards him out of his peripheral vision.

"Coffee? Tea? Anything, love?" John asked, wanting to help in any way he could.

"Working." Sherlock said as if that was answer enough.

John nodded and kissed Sherlock's head gently before walking out.

"Alright. Going to the break room. I'll be back soon."

Sherlock didn't look up from his work, but nodded to let John know that he had heard what was said. After a couple of hours, John came back in and paced a little. Sherlock could tell that the doctor was slightly agitated.

"So who do you suppose it was?" John asked.

"Who?" Sherlock asked, slightly confused.

"The crying woman." John replied.

"Oh, she's just a hostage. No lead there." Sherlock said dismissively.

"God's sake… I wasn't thinking about leads." John replied, feeling as if he'd suggested something against the woman.

"You're not going to be much use to her." Why did she matter anyway?

"Are you trying to trace it? Trace the call?" John fumbled, moving closer to Sherlock. The sound of Sherlock's phone interrupted him.

"The bomber's too smart for that. Pass me my phone." Sherlock said, not so much asking as telling.

"Where is it?" John asked patiently.

"Jacket."

John crossed over to Sherlock, whose eyes were still focused on the soil, and gently slid his hand into the pocket, searching for the phone.

"Who is it from?" Sherlock asked, but not honestly caring at that point.

"Text from your brother." John replied, thankful that he hadn't disrupted Sherlock's study too much.

"Delete it."

"Delete it?" John asked.

"Missile plans are out of the country by now, nothing I can do about it here."

"Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times now."

Sherlock sighed, "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. It's simple. West stole the plans, tried to sell them, and got his head bashed his head in for his pains. The real mystery is why does my brother insist on boring me when someone else is being so delightfully interesting?" Sherlock said, very annoyed with his brother.

John closed the phone and walked next to his boyfriend.

"Please try to remember, there's a woman who might die." John sighed.

"What for? This hospital is full of dying people, doctor. Why don't you go cry by their bedside and see what good it'll do." Sherlock said, not realizing how cruel and heartless he sounded.

John was about to say something when the monitor beside Sherlock went off. At almost the same time, Molly came through the door. John almost wanted to groan, knowing that Molly harbored a crush for Sherlock, but he just stepped back and watched.

"Any luck?" Molly asked.

"Oh, yes." Sherlock replied, though not sharing the results.

The fine layer was from London, but the majority of the soil was indigenous to Sussex. A moment later, a man walked in.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't..." the man trailed.

John looked over to Sherlock and noticed that the detective was already deducing the man. John almost didn't notice Molly trying to remember his name.

"John Watson. Hi." he replied a bit stiffly.

John really didn't like the way this stranger, apparently named Jim, was looking so intently at Sherlock.

"Hi." Jim replied to John quickly then looked to Sherlock, "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's been telling me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"

John moved to the side as Jim and Molly both invaded John's personal space and took his place. John could feel irritability boiling in his belly. The trick, though, was to keep it under control.

"Jim works in IT upstairs," Molly explained, "That's how we met – office romance."

There was a short exchange of giggles before Sherlock jumped in.

"Gay."

"Sorry, what?" Molly asked, offended and thrown off.

"Nothing, um, hey." Sherlock covered with a polite, leave-me-alone-already smile.

Jim was making a fool of himself. He tripped walking while walking closer in a clumsy attempt to leave his number under the dish, which he knocked over. Moron. Sherlock turned back to the microscope and drowned everything out even though he had his data.

"Well, I'd better be off." Jim said, apparently embarrassed, "I'll see you at the Fox around six-ish? Bye. It was nice to meet you."

There was silence for a few long seconds.

"You too." John said abruptly, speaking for Sherlock.

Jim finally left the room.

"What do you mean gay? We're together." Molly said with a confused yet irritated smile on her face.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly; you've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

John closed his eyes. _Sherlock_...

"Two and a half."

"No, three."

"Sherlock." John warned.

"He's not gay! Why'd you have to spoil...? He's not."

John found that to be the appropriate moment to intercede.

"Molly, there's something I need to talk to you about."

"Just a moment, uh, John."

"No," John said sternly, "now."

Molly looked at the man who was boring his eyes into hers. Nervousness overtook her and she nodded as they two made their way to the hallway. Before they got to the door, Sherlock spoke up again.

"Both of you come back here." Sherlock grumbled.

"Sherlock,"

"Come here."

John and Molly sighed and walked back over to the detective who was staring them both down.

"First of all, Molly. Not gay with that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts product in his hair? I put product in my hair." John said.

"You wash your hair, John, there's a difference. No. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of Taurine cream around the frown lines and those tired clubbers' eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" John and Molly both exclaimed for the same and different reasons.

"Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here. I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

"Sherlock." John warned again.

"Secondly, Molly," Sherlock started again, "You should know that continuing any ideas of dating me are out of the question."

"What makes you think...?"

"Please, not now. Let me finish what I was saying."

Molly glared hard at Sherlock. John had never seen such a fierce look from the mousy woman.

"As I was saying, John and I are 'together' now. Just thought you'd like to know that bit of information."

With that Sherlock stood and pulled John with one arm into a side embrace. Molly stared at them confused.

"If this is some sort of trick –" she started.

"I can assure you, this is no trick." Sherlock said, punching each word.

Molly just stared for a moment before turning on her heel and leaving the room. John watched after her and shook his head.

"Charming. Well done." John said shortly. (No pun intended.)

Sherlock huffed and squeezed John close to him.

"Yes, I am quite the charmer." Sherlock replied with a kiss to John's hair.

John sighed and pulled away gently and snatched up the number.

"I'll take care of that." John said, wadding up the paper and throwing it in the bin.

"Jealous?" Sherlock looked over at John, smirking. The very idea that John thought Sherlock would ever look at anyone _but_ him was ludicrous.

"No." John obviously lied. John crossed over to Sherlock, who was once again sitting at the microscope.

"Of course not." Sherlock laughed and then refocused on the case.

"So what's the deal with this soil? Why is it significant?" He asked, wanting to talk to Sherlock and have him listen to what he had to say.

"It tells us where he's been." Sherlock stared at the shoes.

"So what do you see?" Sherlock asked John, motioning to the shoes in question.

"No," John shook his head, "I don't want to look like an idiot in front of..."

John stopped. Sherlock wasn't going to give this up any time soon.

"I don't know. They're just a pair of shoes. Trainers."

"Good."

"Um, they're in good nick. I'd say they were pretty new, except the soles have been well worn, so the owner must have had them for a while. Uh, very Eighties. Probably one of those retro designs."

"What else?"

"They're quite big, so a man's."

"But."

"But there are traces of a name inside in felt tip. Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."

"Excellent. What else?"

"That's it."

"That's it?"

"How did I do?"

"Well, John." Sherlock praised, "Really well. I mean, you missed almost everything of importance but, um, you..."

Sherlock stopped when he saw John's expression. Sherlock took the shoe and pulled John closer to him by the waist.

"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean. Whitened them when they got discolored. Changed the laces three, no, four times. There are traces of flakes where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well worn, mostly on the inner side, which means the owner had weak arches. These are twenty years old."

John shook his head slightly.

"Twenty years?"

"Yes, they're not retro. They're original edition; two blue stripes 1989."

"But there's still mud on them. They look new."

"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex with London mud overlaying it."

"How do you know?"

"There's a map reference for me. So the kid who wore these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?"

"Something bad. I mean he loved those shoes, he wouldn't leave them filthy. He wouldn't leave them unless he had to. So a child with big feet gets... Oh."

"What?"

"Carl Powers."

"Sorry, who?"

"Carl Powers, John."

"What is it?"

"It's where I began."

John looked at Sherlock with a curious yet concerned expression and nodded towards the door so they could get back to the flat. John trailed beside the genius and stayed in step until they got into the cab.

"So who's Carl Powers?" John asked.

"It's my first case, John. It's where it all began." Sherlock replied while ducking into the cab with John right behind him.

"I'm listening." John said, ready for the story of how his wonderful Sherlock came to be... well...Sherlock.

"It was 1989; young kid, champion swimmer comes up from Brighton for a school sports tournament. Tragic accident. You wouldn't remember it. Or should you?"

"You remember."

"Yes."

"Something was fishy about it?"

"Nobody thought so. Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself, I read about it in the papers."

"You started pretty young then, didn't you?" John smiled. It wasn't a surprise.

"I was only ten years old. The kid, Carl Powers, had some sort of fit in the water. By the time they got him out, it was too late. But there was something wrong. Something I couldn't get out of my head."

"His shoes?"

"They were missing. I raised a fuss, but no one listened to me. I tried to get the police involved, but no one thought it was important. He had left all his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes."

"Until now." John said, looking at the man who chose him.

John fought the urge to yawn as they rode along. His sleep had been disturbed by a certain Detective Inspector and he would have very much liked to get back to that. He knew that wasn't a possibility, so he sat closer to his Sherlock.

"Um, Sherlock. Can I, um, rest my head on…on your shoulder?"

John had no idea why he was suddenly so nervous to touch Sherlock. He'd just slept beside the man that previous night. Sherlock smiled and put an arm around John, pulling him a little bit closer. The smell of laundry soap, shaving cream, and tea filled Sherlock's senses as he held John close.

"You don't have to ask." Sherlock said, rubbing John's arm with his thumb.

John returned the smile and rested his head against that angular shoulder. John breathed in Sherlock's scent and closed his eyes. Sherlock smelled of mint, shampoo, and just the slightest bit of metal. John then was dozing lightly as the cab rolled along and he kept his head right where it was just right; right between Sherlock's shoulder and neck. Sherlock lightly kissed John's head as he slept.

They rode for about thirty minutes longer than necessary at the expense of Sherlock's wallet. When they stopped in front of the flat, John was still asleep. Sherlock would have usually nudged or poked the doctor, but instead, – now that their feelings were shared deeper than just flat mates or even just mates, but of lovers – Sherlock gently kissed John's forehead and lightly patted his arm.

John looked up and found a small grasp of consciousness enough for him to clamber out of the cab. John stood in front of the door to their flat (he'd forgotten his key on his desk) and waited for Sherlock to give the next step.

"What's next?" John asked readily in a slightly sleepy voice.

"Next is you go and get some sleep. I have some research to do." Sherlock said as the climbed up the stairs.

Sherlock held John's arm as they made their way up the steps and only let go once they were in the flat. Sherlock had things to do and no time to make sure that John found his way to bed. He should know the way. Already sitting down and going through papers in the kitchen, Sherlock's mind was going at rocket speed.

John stood beside Sherlock and put his chin against his shoulder.

"Why don't you bring your papers in the room with you so I can nap beside you?" John asked quietly, hoping the taller man would say yes, but knowing the answer anyways.

"John, you know I'd love to, but we only have five hours left. I still don't know how Carl Powers was killed." Sherlock sighed.

John nodded but then thought of something that may have been relevant.

"Wasn't there some white substance in the shoe? I don't know if there was, but I thought I saw something."

"He had eczema. It was probably just a bit of skin from his..." Sherlock trailed off then started setting up a few things to run a sample, moving like a wild fire.

John smiled and left Sherlock to his work. How he knew there was anything out of the ordinary, he actually did not know. He supposed it could have been some sort of cream or something like that. What he did know was that the case would be finished a little sooner. John couldn't sleep and wouldn't without knowing that the woman would be safe and Sherlock had solved the case. With that knowledge, John sat in his chair and opened a book he'd forgotten about a week or so back. He wasn't even completely comfortable when Sherlock's phone buzzed beside him. It was another text from Mycroft.

"Want me to check this text, Sherlock?" John asked over his shoulder.

All he got in response was a grunt that sounded rather agitated. Taking that as a yes, John checked the text. Of course.

_Sherlock, you need to begin this case now. Don't make me order you. – MH_

John texted back quickly.

_Sherlock is working at it. Could I come by and get some information?_

A few moments later John was walking out of the flat with a suit on and a pen and paper.

"Off out, Sherlock."

About two hours later Sherlock whispered "poison" and slammed his hands down on the table, making his instruments rattle.

"Clostridium botulinum. It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!"

John had just walked in from gathering information at Mycroft's office. When he heard Sherlock's outburst he hurried into the kitchen and stood behind Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Remember the shoelaces?" Sherlock asked, jumping up and walking around to where he had them hanging.

"Yes." John replied as he watched Sherlock.

"The boy suffered from eczema. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison to his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns."

Sherlock was walking around the kitchen at this point, looking rather excited. John was actually concerned about the excitement. Most people would be devastated to know how a child was murdered. But then again, Sherlock isn't most people. John walked up to him.

"Now that you've solved his puzzle, we need to let the bomber know."

Sherlock walked over to his laptop and typed in Carl Powers' shoes and how he was murdered. A few moments later, the pink phone rang. Sherlock put it on speaker.

"Well done, you. Come and get me." the woman cried, her voice shedding some relief as she said the last phrase.

"Where are you? Tell us where you are." Sherlock yelled into the phone.

Thankfully, they heard sirens on the other end of the line. The woman was under care now. John gave a sigh of relief and looked to Sherlock, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Sherlock walked over to John, who still looked rather dashing in his suit.

"Are you still tired?"

John looked up at Sherlock and shook his head.

"No, not really. Why? Are you?" John asked.

"Not at all." Sherlock beamed.

Sherlock has just solved a case that had bothered him since he was ten years old, and it essentially had been handed to him on a silver platter. He was positively giddy.

John grinned at him and nodded.

"I thought so. How are you feeling, then? Anything interesting to you?" John asked. He found himself quickly drawn into Sherlock's eyes. How could one's eyes be that shallow, but deep all at once?

Sherlock gave John a mischievous grin.

"Why don't you tell me?" Sherlock asked in a gravelly voice.

John had hardly any time to breathe or react before Sherlock had their lips locked together. John found himself returning all of the passion that was being given to him as his stomach did summersaults with nerves and emotion. He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's thick dark locks and pulled him closer to his body.

Sherlock all but pulled John to the couch, all the while still snogging him. He'd discovered that he was a great kisser, and he was going to damn well use that to every advantage. John held onto Sherlock and fell into the couch when he tripped over the book that he'd supposedly placed on the table. Never minding the pull of gravity, John pulled Sherlock with him. Sherlock had to angle himself so he wouldn't land directly on top of him. He almost started to sit up, but didn't. Instead he wrapped his arms around John more tightly, kissing him deeper.

John could hardly breathe as he felt Sherlock's mouth pressed firmly against his, lips parted in desperation. John sucked and kissed and nipped and breathed with his Sherlock tangled in his grasp. After a moment, he turned to where he was half sitting and could hold his detective with a little more ease. John combed his lover's curls back from his face as he kissed Sherlock as if he was the most valuable thing in the world. John was kissing Sherlock with tender-passion; a feat not easily performed.

They stayed like that for a while, but Sherlock eventually pulled back and took a ragged breath.

"John, we need to stop this before it goes any further." Sherlock whispered.

John nodded in understanding and gently tucked a curl back behind Sherlock's ear.

"As you wish." John said gently.


	6. Chapter 6

John didn't want to rush things; that wasn't his way of working in relationships. He definitely didn't want Sherlock at all uncomfortable and he was willing to wait as long as it took for Sherlock to progress.

It wasn't as if Sherlock didn't want to carry it further, he really did. But it was not a logical move at this point in time. The bomber had more coming for them very soon. Then there was the fact that they had only been together for nearly two days. This wasn't a trivial matter to Sherlock, and he didn't want to rush perfection. It also had nothing whatsoever to do with that fact that Sherlock was scared senseless at the thought of progressing to more than kissing.

John sat up and stretched his arms. He was about to get up when his phone rang. Lestrade was calling him now.

"Hello?"

"You two might want to get down here quickly. I have some information for you and I want your information as soon as possible."

"Alright, we'll be there soon."

John looked over to Sherlock, who was stark still and awful at hiding his emotions when his body so clearly had its own ideas. John knew he needed a distraction.

"Looks like we're going to the Yard. Lestrade wants us."

Sherlock flopped back on the couch and breathed out.

"I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow morning. Nothing more will happen tonight. Call him back and tell him we'll be in tomorrow.

John nodded and sent Lestrade a text instead. John looked over to the clock and noticed that it was about 8:50. Close enough to dinner and there was too much energy at the moment for the doctor to even think of sleep. He leaned back against the couch and put his arm up with his hand resting near Sherlock's shoulder.

"Do you want anything? I'm going to make dinner."

"Just some tea, Love. Thank you." Sherlock said, turning to face John.

John smiled at that thank you. Maybe moving in with the genius child was the right decision for himself and Sherlock as well. John kissed Sherlock's forehead and let his lips stay there for a moment.

"Aright." he said while getting up, "Oh, Sherlock. You just, uh, take your time. Ok? As much time as you want. I'll wait. There's no rush here."

John gave Sherlock a knowing smile and disappeared into the kitchen. Sherlock turned red and looked down at his hands. It appeared he wasn't the only one who could read people. He was just glad that John wasn't upset. He didn't know how long it would take him either. Hopefully not so long that it drove his doctor away.

John worked his way through the kitchen and started dinner. Something simple would do; microwavable meals always worked. John would have done anything at that moment to ward away that ugly doubt. Even with the beautiful kisses that Sherlock gave, he couldn't help but doubt. He was just so ordinary. Sherlock was more than extraordinary. John worked at the tin foil lid and tried to think of anything. Anything at all.

Sherlock was sitting in his normal thinking pose; his fingers under his chin. Why was John wasting his time with him? Of course he was happy to have him, but he was worried what would happen when he finally did realize what a hopeless case Sherlock really was. When he left Sherlock alone. When he left...

John walked in with two mugs and his food. Sherlock was in his thinking pose. John wondered what about and sat Sherlock's mug beside him on the table. John sat down and glanced at Sherlock as he stirred his meal; He wanted to know what was on Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock looked over at John, unable to keep the apparent worry off of his face.

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John looked up and leaned forward, worried about Sherlock.

"Yes? What's wrong?" John asked, concern furrowing his brow.

Sherlock sighed and shifted in his seat so he was leaning on his knees. He stared down at the carpet and asked in a nearly inaudible whisper.

"Why are you with me?"

John set his plate to the side and assumed the same position as Sherlock, merely out of his own character movements. John reached his hand out to tilt Sherlock's chin up to him.

"I could ask the same of you. Why me? Tell me what's exactly going on in your mind, Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock looked up at John and felt uncharacteristic tears burning behind his eyes.

"I've...I've been wondering when you are going to come to your senses and leave me, John. You are a kind and wonderful...and a brilliant man. You deserve better. Certainly someone better than me."

John never knew what it meant to feel heartbreak like that before Sherlock doubted himself. John got down on his knees in front of Sherlock and took his hands.

"Sherlock, I don't know if it's occurred to you yet, but I am just a man. I am...just a man that somehow earned your trust. Why you chose me, I do not know. But, look at me Sherlock. Look into my eyes so I know that you understand me. There is no one. No one can convince me that you are not worth so much more than just a brilliant mind. I don't need to come to my senses because I've already been there. I came to my senses when you tromped right into my boring life. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. So much more than I can offer. So I wholeheartedly give you myself because I care about you. I want to be yours even...even if..."

John stopped, frozen by his own tears. He couldn't finish it. Sherlock wiped away the tears that tracked John's face. His own doubts were all but forgotten as he wiped John's face gently, as if the soldier would fall apart like snow in his arms.

"Even if what?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John closed his eyes and took a breath. It was now or never.

"Even...if...I'm not enough to...to keep you happy...or interested in me."

Sherlock cupped John's cheek, his emotions swelling. That was an odd feeling for him, but he offhandedly embraced it.

"John, I love you. You are the most wonderful, beautiful and amazing person I know. You are so much more than I ever dreamed of having. You aren't boring or completely stupid. You can see me and talk to me the way I never thought anyone would. I want you with me, always because I love you, John."

John felt shock spindle down his body as Sherlock's words danced around his ears. John shakily raised his hands to touch Sherlock's as fresh tears spilled over. A smile played at John's lips as he closed his eyes.

"I...I love you too, Sherlock." John breathed out in relief, "Oh, I love you too."

And John meant it. He'd never said those three life changing words to anyone outside his family, and he knew then that Sherlock was the one he meant to say them to. Sherlock again wiped John's tears away and gently kissed his forehead then lips. John returned the kisses and held Sherlock's hands.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you so much." John said while holding his forehead against Sherlock's.

"I love you." Sherlock murmured quietly, testing the words on his tongue again.

"I love you too." John replied with great sincerity.

They held each other like that for a few more moments longer, Sherlock's hands caressing John's face and John's hands against Sherlock's. Sherlock finally pulled away and grinned at John.

"Well, now that this is settled, go rewarm your food. You need to eat."

John smiled a bit and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"Alright. You at least put that tea in your stomach. Ok? Doctor's orders." John said as he took his plate back to the microwave.

Sherlock chuckled and sipped at his tea. There was a large void in his life that was finally filled by a small man with a big heart and a big temper. Sherlock was lost in thought about John and the case before he noticed that his tea had turned cold. No matter. It was still drinkable. He preferred cold things anyways.

John breathed a sigh of relief as he opened the microwave. Balance was once again restored to the universe. John took his plate back to the sitting room and sat on the couch at a comfortable distance near Sherlock while he ate his MRE.

When it looked as though John had finished his meal, Sherlock stood up and pulled John with him once John had the chance to put the dishes down. John held onto Sherlock's hand and followed the man, not knowing what was happening, but trusting the man that had captured him.

Sherlock stopped in front of the stairs that led to John's bedroom.

"Are you tired?" Sherlock asked.

It was obvious that he was, but Sherlock thought that he should have asked in any case.

"Yeah, a bit." John replied while rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye.

John looked up at Sherlock and wondered what their accommodations were to be for the night.

"So, um..." John mumbled. He hoped Sherlock would make a quick decision.

Sherlock didn't really know what to do about the whole situation, so he hugged John and kissed him once quickly on the lips.

"I love you." he whispered into John's ear.

Then without another word, let go, turned and walked to his room. John had been able to follow the affection, a little stunned, as he watched Sherlock walk to his room.

"I love you too."

John sighed a little and stretched. Climbing up the stairs, John thought about Sherlock's confession to him and his own to Sherlock. After undressing and changing into a pair of pajamas, John crawled into his bed and set his arms behind his head. Within a few moments, John was barely between wakefulness asleep.

Sherlock walked into his room and leaned up against the door. He had solved a twenty or so year old case in approximately nine hours, and the only thing he cared about was that John actually loved him. The thought made his knees buckle beneath him so he slid down the door. John, amazing wonderful John, loved him. It was almost unbelievable.

And that was the problem. He couldn't do it. He couldn't fathom the thought of someone else actually loving him. Sherlock leaned against the door for what felt like ages, but eventually got up and changed into a pair of pajama bottoms.

"_Might as well try to get some sleep_." he thought to himself, climbing under the covers.

John, in the meantime, had woken up, unable to sleep properly. He decided that if he couldn't sleep, he'd relax in the silence instead. Sitting up and turning his lamp on, John grabbed a book from his shelf and nestled back into the covers to read.

Focusing became an issue after John realized he'd read the same line five times. His mind was somewhere else; Sherlock. Had Sherlock really said that he loved him? Did he really care for the doctor? John almost couldn't believe that he had someone to love and loved him back. John breathed out and thought about Sherlock unapologetically. This beautiful genius gave John something he'd never really appreciated from anyone before: real love opposed to obligatory love.

But Sherlock, well, Sherlock never really went to sleep. He grabbed the pillow that John had used the night before and just stared at the ceiling. How was it possible to love someone and want their love, but not believe that they could possibly love you back? Sherlock couldn't figure it out. He wanted to talk to John. To be near John. He wanted John. However, he didn't want to wake him. Ignoring what his conscience told him, Sherlock grabbed a t-shirt and one of his dressing gowns and quietly walked up the stairs to John's room. He could see the light spilling out from beneath the door. So, he wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping. Sherlock quietly knocked on the door.

John looked up from his book and saved his place where he'd just stared blankly for the past few minutes. Setting the book aside, John sat up.

"Come in, Sherlock." John greeted.

Why wasn't Sherlock asleep? Of course the man was a night owl, but owls need sleep as well. John smiled as the door opened with a tall, gorgeous detective in his doorway. John's breath escaped him. How was it possible for a man to be as beautiful as Sherlock was? Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, John looked up at Sherlock as he walked into the room. Of course, Sherlock was looking at everything as he went. John kept a very neat room; habit left over from the military. He saw that John had pulled the covers back and patted the space beside him, so he walked over and sat beside the doctor, but kept a little space between them.

John stretched out and popped his back as he went. He noticed how Sherlock kept some space between them, and it was a little unnerving. He knew Sherlock had a reason for coming to his room. He knew that Sherlock had something on his mind by the way he was presenting himself.

"Want to tell me what's on your mind now?" John asked.

Sherlock pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them.

"Honestly, no. No, because frankly I don't understand it and it is something I really don't want the answer to."

John nodded and sat still for a moment. He wanted Sherlock to be able to talk to him, but that would happen on his own time. John gently squeezed and rubbed Sherlock's shoulder and yawned a bit.

"What do you want to do, then?" John asked sort of vaguely.

"You need sleep. I need to think. John, all I really need right now is you with me." Sherlock glanced down at John, a small smile playing at his cupid's bow lips. John smiled back.

"Well, if you're gonna be in here, you may as well go to bed with me." John suggested while pulling his legs back into bed and moving towards the inward corner for Sherlock to have room.

"Are you trying to steal my honor?" Sherlock asked with a smirk, laying down and sliding closer to his doctor. John opened his arms to Sherlock and nestled down.

"Oh, thought never occurred." John grinned.

Sherlock moved into John's arms and kissed at his neck while curling up against him. John smiled and wrapped his arms snuggly around Sherlock and kissed his forehead as he turned out the light and snuggled with his lanky lover. Sherlock whispered a quiet "I love you" to John, though he was almost afraid to hear the response. Or worse, none at all.

John rubbed Sherlock's shoulder and yawned. His "I love you too" came out sounding like a dying whale thanks to that yawn. John grinned and kissed Sherlock's lips once more before settling into a fine sleep.

Sherlock smiled as he watched his blogger sleep in the dim window light. Maybe his fears were unfounded after all. If this was an act, it was very convincing. He played with the hair at the back of John's head, lightly running his fingers through it, until he himself started to drift off.

John slept peacefully in Sherlock's arms. He knew that he was safe from whatever criminal, family member, or moron was out in the world. John huddled into Sherlock's warmth to where there was no space between them. After getting comfortable, sleepy John had absolutely no intentions of moving from his spot in Sherlock's arms.

Morning came too soon for Sherlock. He looked at John's nightstand for the clock. It was only four in the morning. John was sleeping peacefully, so he stayed where he was. For one, because they were both comfortable and warm. And two, because Sherlock was afraid of waking John, knowing how stroppy the man could get if he were woken for no reason.

John, at the same time, was dreaming. An image. A voice. Someone was talking to him on his mobile. John concentrated on who the person was and listened. He heard his name, spoken in tears. There was a whoosh of air. His heart was pounding in his ears. John woke himself up from the dream, but kept his eyes closed as he breathed in sharply. He could feel Sherlock's arms tighten around him. The comfort of the detective's warmth and his heartbeat lulled John into a light doze.

Sherlock would have lain with John forever, but he heard his mobile ring in the sitting room. He let the damn phone ring. He knew it was Lestrade calling them down to the Yard. Well, he could survive for a few moments longer.

**Thank you to all of you who have favorited and followed this story, but I would really love some feedback. If you could, please leave a review, letting both myself and GivinThePuzzleIWillDance know how you feel about it, that would be amazing. Again thank you, and I promise we will post as soon as we can once we get back.**


	7. Chapter 7

John finally woke up and stretched out his limbs. Sherlock was staring into space and his phone was ringing in the distance. John sighed and snuggled under Sherlock's arm and kissed his beautiful neck.

"You're looking rather pensive." John smiled, "Did you sleep at all?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I slept for a few hours."

John was about to speak again when Sherlock kissed his lips with sudden tenderness. John felt his breath escape his lungs as his eyes fluttered closed. He was totally enveloped in Sherlock's impromptu kiss. Sherlock pulled back after a couple of moments and softly kissed the tip of John's nose.

"Good morning." he crooned in that sweet baritone.

John smiled and relaxed into Sherlock's shoulder while holding his hand, "Good morning."

"Did you sleep well, love?"

"Quite. Did you? At least when you did sleep?" John replied while stretching his legs, making that little dinosaur noise when one stretches for too long.

Sherlock chuckled at his blogger, "Yes, actually. I did."

Sherlock wanted to snuggle back in with John, but his mobile was ringing again. He let out a deep sigh and set his head back.

"That'll be Lestrade. Again."

John chuckled and kissed Sherlock tenderly on the lips once more.

"Go answer it." John muttered.

Sherlock nodded. He went back into the sitting room and answered his phone. He didn't even wait to hear what Lestrade was saying. It was obvious why he was calling. They already knew to come down to the station, like they always did. Plus, the call had made him have to get up and leave John, which he had not wanted to do.

"Yes, Lestrade, we will be there in a little while."

He ended the call and stood still for a moment. Of course something wonderful would happen and some bomber would ruin it for him. After breathing out, Sherlock walked back up to John's room. Sherlock wasn't expecting to see a half-naked John as the doctor was pulling on his tan jumper just as Sherlock walked in. John was a little startled and a small blush rose to his face, but he allowed the detective in.

"Oh, sorry," Sherlock turned slightly red, "Lestrade wants us at the Yard."

Sherlock turned and went back down the stairs quickly. John wanted to stop him, but decided that the timing was wrong. Quickly, John brushed his teeth and hair and grabbed his coat before meeting Sherlock downstairs. When he got there, Sherlock was already waiting; dressed and smelling of mint. They both went downstairs and hailed a cab, but Sherlock wouldn't meet John's eyes. This made John wonder. Sure, he'd been changing, but Sherlock had seen worse, hadn't he? He sighed and took Sherlock's hand in his own. Sherlock kept looking straight ahead, but squeezed John's hand quickly.

As John got into the cab he sat close to Sherlock and turned his head to face him.

"Hey, look at me. What's wrong?" John asked gently.

Sherlock did look at John, but by the time he did, he'd made his face an emotionless mask.

"It's nothing, John." he replied solemnly.

John frowned and held Sherlock's hand just a little tighter. He didn't want to risk losing the best person that had come into his life. He sighed a little and eased his grip on that warm slender hand. Sherlock cupped John's face in his hand.

"John, it is fine. It's just not something to worry about right now."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes. There was finally some warmth in those eyes. John shook his head with a small smile. He was getting ahead of himself and the detective.

"You're right." John said softly.

Sherlock placed a quick peck on John's lips and sat back in his seat. John simply smiled and followed suit, sitting a little closer, but not exactly touching Sherlock. Sherlock found himself a bit apprehensive about going to the Yard. He didn't know what the bomber had waiting for him, and he almost, just almost, didn't want to know.

John was nervous about what was going to happen next. They were dealing with someone who liked to play with people's lives. When the pulled into the Yard, John paid the cabbie and walked in with his hand on the small of Sherlock's back. John was staring ahead as they maneuvered their way to Lestrade's office.

He noticed the judgmental glances they were receiving and he did not bloody care. Well, that was a lie. He was slightly pissed. Who were they to judge? Sherlock himself had just pointed out the other day how many affairs were going on in that one building alone. It was a considerable number. John didn't realize that he was scowling as he pressed his hand a little harder against Sherlock's waist. As they passed a desk he overheard someone say something along the lines of "grumpy hedgehog."

Sherlock looked down to John and noticed the unbecoming scowl on his face.

"What's wrong?"

John snapped his head up and dropped his scowl.

"Nothing I didn't expect from this lot." He said. A moment later, John looked up at Sherlock curiously.

"Sherlock, do I look like a hedgehog to you?

Sherlock smiled mischievously, "Yes. A very adorable hedgehog."

Sherlock then kissed John's temple. This earned him a few scowls, shocked expressions, a few snickers and, unsurprisingly, a few looks that clearly screamed "Finally!" John smiled a little under Sherlock's affection and blushed at how open their situation was. Of course _he_ started it. John reached his head up, tiptoe walking, and planted a sweet kiss on Sherlock's chin.

"If I'm a hedgehog, then you're an otter." John laughed.

"I look nothing like an otter." Sherlock said, confused.

John laughed, "If I got an otter and put a blue scarf on it, it would look just like you."

"But I don't look like an otter, John."

"Yeah you do." John said as they rounded the corner into Lestrade's office.

Sherlock looked around the office and noticed that Lestrade was a little more stressed than usual. There were new cigarette patches in his desk. New box opened and emptied in his bin. Left bottom drawer most likely. Easiest for Lestrade to hide the patches while having quick access. The detective inspector was also on his third mug of coffee that morning. Faded stain on his sleeve at the wrist and a stained napkin under the new mug, which had no liquid at the base. Finally there was a slight twist in the blinds at the window. Someone had tried to turn them up quickly. Lestrade's growing headache was to account for that.

"Well, we're here. What do you have for us? Oh, and Lestrade, you might want to slow down on the caffeine and nicotine. Not good for your health." Sherlock asked, slipping back into that emotionless demeanor that he adopted supposedly around everyone.

Lestrade leaned back in his seat and rubbed at his temples.

"She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park, and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house – Only to phone you. She had to read out from this." Lestrade explained while putting a pager on his desk.

"And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off." Sherlock finished.

"Or if you hadn't solved the case." John inserted, looking up from the chair he was sitting in.

"Oh, elegant." Sherlock breathed out.

"Elegant?" John asked, slightly bemused and disgruntled.

"But what was the point? Why would anyone do this?" Lestrade grumbled out.

"Well, I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored." Sherlock rebutted.

There was a message on the pink phone. Sherlock opened the tab to reveal four pips and a new photo.

"First test passed." Sherlock said, looking at the image and crossing to Lestrade and John, "Here's the second."

Both of the men stood and looked into the screen to see a car in front of a bombing site.

"It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock said.

"It should, it's been reported." Lestrade mumbled, his headache only showing through now.

The door opened and Sally Donovan walked into the room, distain etching her face.

"Freak, it's for you." she said, holding out a phone for Sherlock.

John scowled at her and took down a mental note to chew her out later because she and Sherlock were already out the door. John looked over to Lestrade, who was searching through his desk for a migraine pill.

Sherlock walked out the door and took the phone, glancing at Sgt. Donovan with distaste.

"Hello?"

"It's ok that you've gone to the police." A young man struggled on the other line.

"Who is this? Is this you again?" Sherlock asked.

"But don't rely on them. Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped his laughing."

"It seems you've stolen another voice, I presume." Sherlock derailed.

"This is about you and me." the man whimpered.

Sherlock listened to the other end of the line. It sounded like the middle of the city.

"Where are you? What's that noise?" Sherlock asked, suddenly allowing concern and curiosity to seep through his voice.

"That's the sound of life, Sherlock. But don't worry. I can soon fix that." The man's voice went up on the last few notes. He was crying for sure.

"You solved my last puzzle in under nine hours." the man continued, "This time, you have eight." the line disconnected.

Lestrade and John came forth from the office. John, taking Sherlock's hand, led them behind Lestrade.

"We found it." Lestrade declared as they walked out to the police car.

By the time they got to the site, John had told off and/or harmed Sgt. Donovan fifteen different ways in his mind. Who was she to call Sherlock a freak? She was the one with the freaky poofy perm. As they walked to the car, Lestrade have the rundown and John walked just a step behind Sherlock.

"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford," Lestrade explained, "banker of some kind. City boy. He paid in cash. Told his wife he was going on a business trip and he never arrived."

John could hear Sally talking to him, but he was purposefully ignoring every word she said.

"Before you ask, yes it is Monkford's blood. DNA checks out." Lestrade went on.

"No body." Sherlock said flatly.

"Not yet." Sally replied in her usual annoying tone.

"Get a sample to the lab." Sherlock said, walking with John.

Sherlock could tell that John was quite upset and it was only too easy to guess why. They walked towards where Mr. Monkford's wife was, but stopped just a few yards off. Sherlock turned to John and looked into his face.

"I know what she says bothers you, but believe me, I've had far worse. I don't let idiots like her bother me. Please don't let it bother you."

John put his hand on Sherlock's arm.

"You're mine, correct?"

"Yes?"

"So when someone speaks against someone I love, or says something wrong about someone or something that is mine, I will not tolerate it." John sighed, "I want you to know, Sherlock, that I love you. You are brilliant. You are not a freak. Now, let's get back to this case."

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to kiss his John and forget that the rest of the world existed. Unfortunately, he had a case to solve in eight hours and he hadn't really started yet. He needed to question the wife.

"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock asked, faking the emotion in his voice only too easily.

"Yes?" She said, her voice a bit raw from the crying. "Sorry, but I have already spoken with two policemen."

"No, we're not from the police, we're..." John began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Sherlock Holmes, very old friend of your husbands. We um...We grew up together." Sherlock said, his voice catching with the fake emotion.

"I'm sorry, who? I don't think he ever mentioned you."

"Oh he must have. This...This is horrible. I mean I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian, not a care in the world."

"Sorry? My husband has been depressed for months. Who are you?" Mrs. Monkford asked, sounding a bit miffed.

Sherlock went on as though he had not heard her. "It's strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious isn't it?"

"No it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."

"Ah well, that was Ian. That was Ian all over." The fake tears streamed down his face and fake emotion rocked his voice.

"No, it wasn't." She was definitely angry now.

And in an instant, he dropped the facade, "Wasn't it? Interesting."

John followed after Sherlock as he walked away from the woman.

"Why did you lie to her?"

"People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?" Sherlock explained, wiping one of the tears from his face while John reached up and wiped the other one.

"Sorry, what?" John asked a bit confused.

"When I referred to her husband in the past tense, she joined in. Bit premature. They've only just found the car."

"You think she murdered her husband?"

"Definitely not. That's not the sort of mistake the killer would make."

"I see. No I don't. What do I see?"

John kept up with Sherlock with little difficulty as they walked away from the scene.

"Fishing! Try fishing!" Sgt. Donovan called after John.

John scowled and balled up his fists as he turned back to her.

"Try acting like a decent human and I might consider it." he called out.

John turned forward and walked forward with stiff military purpose. Sherlock caught the doctor off guard and bent down next to his ear.

"If that means you would consider leaving me, then we will have a few words, Dr. Watson." Sherlock growled in a deep whisper.

John didn't exactly catch Sherlock's innuendo at first, so of course he reacted entirely differently than Sherlock expected.

"You think I'd do something like that?" John asked with his mouth agape.

"No, I don't, but if you ever even consider it, then I will have to convince you otherwise."

John linked his arm through Sherlock's and pulled him closer to his body.

"You won't have to worry. Sherlock, you know I love you. Sally Donovan of all people certainly won't have any say in our relationship."

Sherlock was getting a little flustered.

"I didn't actually think that you would consider. Maybe I should have made my point a bit clearer."

The had been walking towards the main road, but Sherlock pulled them into an ally and, without so much as a warning, Sherlock had John against the wall and was kissing him viciously. John was startled, but received the kisses openly and managed his kisses down Sherlock's chin, across his throat, and back up to his mouth, where John's teeth nipped at the soft cupid bow lip. Sherlock nipped at John's lips and pulled him in for a searing kiss. He kissed all along John's jaw and cheek and moved up to his ear.

"You are mine," Sherlock growled. "I don't want to hear you ever even _consider_ it."

John let out a ragged breath and closed his eyes. A barely audible moan escaped his throat as Sherlock's lips sent hot breath across his ear. John nodded and pulled Sherlock's body closer, making their hips brush. John felt heat rising up in his neck as Sherlock held him closer.

"I hear you loud and clear, love." John panted.

Sherlock was still breathing heavily when he cupped John's face and ran his thumbs over John's cheeks. He touched their foreheads together in chaste affection.

"I love you."

"I love you too." John replied, tightening his grip around Sherlock's torso.

Sherlock gently pulled John back for another kiss, but this one was much less heated and slower paced. This particular kiss was tender and gentle; much like their first, but more intimate. Sherlock moved his hands from John's cheeks to his neck and pulled him even closer still. John kept his arms wound firmly around Sherlock's middle and moved with the tenderness of their kiss.

Sherlock wanted to stay there in John's embrace with their soft lips pressed in sweet harmonic brushes, but as fate would have it, they still had work to do.

"Come on, we still have a case to solve and a bomber to catch."

John sighed and kissed Sherlock once more.

"To Janus Cars, then?"

"To Janus Cars."


	8. Chapter 8

The two joined hands and walked out proudly to the main road and hailed a cab promptly. The ride was quiet and rather uneventful. Once they got to their destination, John noticed Sherlock eyeing the cigarette machine posted outside the offices. Hoping that the genius wasn't relapsing, John walked in and graced his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Mistaking John's warning for affection, Sherlock reached up and gently squeezed John's hand. He couldn't have cared less what anyone thought about what anyone saw between them. They belonged to each other and if people couldn't accept that, then their opinions weren't wanted anyways. When they got into the office, a man by the name of Ewart looked up at them and quirked his eyebrow.

"Can I help you two?" the man asked incredulously. John eyed him over and slightly frowned. He seemed to be the sleazy sort.

"Yes, we're here about Mr. Ian Monkford. He disappeared recently." Sherlock piped.

"Um. Okay?"

"He rented a car from you, yes?"

"Yeah."

"The car was found this morning with blood on the seats." Sherlock spat out. John squeezed his hand, which they both had forgotten that the other was holding. Sherlock let go gently.

"I don't see how I can help you gentlemen." Ewart quipped.

"Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday." John put in, sitting in one of the armchairs with his notebook while Sherlock paced the room, looking at everything.

"Yeah, lovely motor. Mazda RX8. I wouldn't mind one of them myself."

Sherlock pointed to the pictures of the cars behind the desk.

"Is that one?"

"No, those are all Jags. I can see you're not a car man, eh?" he joked.

"Hm. But surely you can afford one – a Mazda I mean."

"Yeah, fair point." Ewart agreed, "But you know how it is. It's like working in a sweets shop. Once you start picking at the licorice allsorts, when does it stop?"

Sherlock glance down. Ewart was scratching at his arm and there was a trace of blood on the shirt.

"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John asked.

"No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. I've no idea what happened to him. Poor sod." He said, the sentences running a little too quickly together.

"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewart?" Sherlock asked.

"Eh?"

"You've been away, haven't you?"

"Oh no," Ewart indicated to his tan, "It's the sunbeds I'm afraid. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it though – a bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asked quickly. John rolled his eyes.

"What?"

"I noticed one on the way in here and I don't have any change – I'm gasping." Sherlock explained, handing over a large bill.

Ewart looked through his wallet and glanced up at Sherlock, who was hovering slightly.

"No, sorry." He replied.

"Oh well." Sherlock said cordially, "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewart. You've been very helpful. Come on, John."

The man didn't smile or acknowledge John when he stood, nor did he bid farewell to Sherlock. He put his wallet back in his pocket and watched them leave. John moved quickly out the door to catch up with Sherlock. As they walked into the garage, John walked closely to Sherlock and kept his voice within range.

"Don't think for one second that I'm going to let you buy—"

"Nicotine patches, remember? I'm doing well."

"Yes, you are. I'm proud of you for it." John replied, noticing Sherlock stand a little taller at the words. John then wondered how often Sherlock had even heard that phrase as a child.

"Then what was all that about?" John asked, pertaining to the change.

"I needed to look inside his wallet."

"Why?"

"Mr. Ewart is a liar." Sherlock proclaimed quietly.

Before long, they were at Bart's lab once more and Sherlock was testing the blood from Mr. Monkford that he'd been given. He was alone in the room, as John was kipping in the employee break room. Sherlock filled a small pipette with a clear fluid and put one drop in the blood in the petri dish before him. Immediately the blood began to fizz and the phone beside him began to ring.

"Hello?"

"The clue's in the name – Janus Cars."

"Why would you be giving me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. He knew that to be a falsehood if he ever heard one. The only one made for him was John H. Watson.

"Then talk to me in your own voice." He feigned hopefulness.

"Patience."

The line disconnected. Sherlock breathed out and looked down at the blood. It was still fizzing, but dying out. A smile traced his lips as he looked at it in the light. He had been right about this case the whole time.

Sherlock put the petri dish back on the table and rushed for the door, only to be met with it opening in his face.

"Oh!"

John squeezed into the room and saw his boyfriend clutching his nose.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" he exclaimed, pulling Sherlock's hand away to assess the damage.

Just a little blood trickled onto Sherlock's lip from his nose and he grimaced against the feeling. John got a tissue from one of the desks and wiped at the blood and guided Sherlock to sit down on one of the stools in the room.

"I'm fine, John. We need to get to the garage."

"No, not until I make sure you're alright." John protested in his most authoritative tone.

Sherlock sat on the stool and looked up at John, who was inspecting his face and cursing himself for not being more careful. A small smirk traced Sherlock's lips as he raised his hand up to capture John's wrists. John looked down at Sherlock and stopped his fretting.

"I'm fine, John. It's okay." He assured, his features softening.

John sighed and gently kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose.

"I'm sorry." He apologized sincerely, "I should have been more careful."

"You are forgiven." Sherlock said, capturing a kiss on John's lips, "Now let's go."

About thirty minutes later, John, Sherlock and Lestrade were standing around the hired car in the garage. Sherlock's nose had swollen some and John looked absolutely guilty. Lestrade considered asking what had happened, but thought better of it. He didn't want himself or John to be embarrassed should Sherlock tell him something he _really_ didn't need to know about.

"So spill." He said, motioning to Sherlock, who had his arm draped across John's shoulders.

"How much blood was on that seat would you say?" Sherlock asked.

"How much? About a pint." Lestrade answered.

"Not about; exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. Blood's definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen. There are clear signs."

"Frozen?" Lestrade questioned.

"I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seat."

"Who did?" John asked.

"Janus Cars – the clue's in the name."

"The god with two faces?"

"Exactly." Sherlock affirmed while taking his arm off of John's shoulder and moving around the car, "They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of problem – money troubles, bad marriage, whatever – Janus cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble – financial at a guess. He's a banker; couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat…"

"So where is he now?" John asked.

"Colombia." Sherlock replied in a very matter of fact tone.

"Colombia!?" Lestrade gaped.

"Mr. Ewart of Janus cars had a 20,000 Colombian peso note in his wallet. Quite a bit of change too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan-line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sun-bed. That plus his arm."

"His arm?"

"He kept scratching at it. Obviously irritating him and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B probably; difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: He's just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and splits it with Janus Cars."

"Mrs. Monkford?" John asked.

"Oh yes, she's in on it too. Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best." Sherlock looked over to John, "We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved!"

Sherlock turned and grabbed John's hand as they were walking out of the garage. With a squeeze to John's hand, Sherlock pumped his fist and let out a victorious call.

"I'm on fire!"

When they finally walked out of the flat – where Sherlock had typed an email to their bomber and received the call to save the man on the other end – Sherlock was simply exhilarated. With a wide grin on his face, Sherlock clapped his hand onto John's shoulder.

"Ah, that was brilliant!"

John chuckled. "I suppose so. At least that case is solved and we're free for now."

John stretched his arms over his head and popped his back. There was an uncertain amount of tension in his stomach. Checking the time, John glanced to Sherlock almost shyly.

"So, um, lunch?"

"Love some. When was the last time you stopped to eat?" Sherlock looked at John seriously.

"Erm, this morning I believe?"

"No, because we left immediately to go to the Yard. There really isn't anything in the flat. It was yesterday, wasn't it? Had you eaten anything this morning you wouldn't be this hungry now since it's just a little after eleven."

"Well, then. I guess a certain boyfriend needs to treat me to a meal." John joked.

"I suppose he does, doesn't he?" Sherlock put an arm around John's waist, "Where to then?"

John hummed for a moment and leaned into Sherlock.

"How long has it been since we went to Angelo's?"

"It's been a while. Angelo will be thrilled." Sherlock said with a small smirk.

John chuckled and reminisced about the first time he and Sherlock ever went to the little restaurant and Angelo's assumption.

"Maybe he'll remember the candle this time." John jested.

The pair walked into Angelo's with their heads held high as they were greeted by the staff. John thanked Billy as he guided them to their regular table at the window. As soon as they moved to sit down, John felt a hand clap his shoulder in good humor.

"Well, well, well," Angelo greeted, "am I really seeing this, Sherlock?"

"If you are referring to the fact that John and I are no longer in denial, and are, in fact, in a relationship, yes, you are seeing this." Sherlock spouted while looking over at John, smiling ever so slightly.

Angelo gave a hearty laugh and gave the pair their menus.

"It's about time, mates. Some of the staff was starting to make wagers. Oi! Henry, you lost!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John shook his head.

"Anything you two need, it's on the house. Sort of a congratulatory gift from me and the family."

John thanked Angelo and scooted a little closer to Sherlock as he looked over his menu. Sherlock promptly slipped his arm around John's waist and pulled him closer.

"Why did we ever try to deny this?" Sherlock murmured into John's ear as he kissed at his cheek.

John felt the butterflies in his stomach bombard his nerves and his whole body flush with pleasure. Oh, how he enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock's lips against his skin. John turned to the detective and caught a chaste kiss with his lips.

"I don't know," John replied in a low voice, "but I think now was the perfect time for us to come to our senses."

Sherlock smiled and placed his hand on the back of John's neck and pulled him into a deep kiss. The fact that they were in a crowded restaurant beside the window of a busy street was the last thing on Sherlock's mind. His first and only priority was his very adorable, very kissable boyfriend in his arms. Nothing was going to ruin this moment. Nothing at all. Just then the pink phone received a text. Well, almost nothing at all.

John let out a soft groan as he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Bloody hell, we can't catch a break, can we?" John groused.

Angelo, by this time, had returned with pen and pad ready for their order.

"Order what you want, I'll just pick off of your plate." Sherlock mumbled, kissing John's hair.

John looked to Angelo and ordered baked fish with rice and sautéed vegetables. On the phone, the men heard three pips and Sherlock saw a picture of a woman. After a moment, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"This one…is a bit…defective. Sorry. She's…blind. This is…a funny one." An old voice quaked over the line.

Sherlock glanced over to John who was rubbing his eyes from exhaustion. A frown traced his lips as he listened to the old woman pause with each short phrase.

"I'll give you…twelve hours."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked, almost hostilely.

"I like…to watch you…dance." The old woman gasped over the line.

Sherlock glanced over to John and pressed his lips into a line. This was one they had to solve quickly. Once the call was ended, John looked over to the picture on the screen.

"I know who she is."

"You do? How?" Sherlock asked, slightly shocked.

John looked up to receive his plate and placed it between himself and Sherlock.

"Well, I don't know her personally. Fortunately for you, I've been more than a little unemployed as of late."

Sherlock was already taking very small bites from John's plate. At the rate that he had been solving cases, he had to break his no eating rule.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Mrs. Hudson and I watch a little too much telly." John replied while gathering his spoils on his fork and raised it to his mouth.

"Then who is she?" Sherlock asked, slightly annoyed. No, the annoyance wasn't directed towards John, but at not knowing things and this bomber. Sure, it was the most interesting string of cases he'd ever had, but they couldn't have come at a worse time.

"Connie Prince. She had one of those makeup TV shows. She was pretty popular."

"Past tense?"

"Mrs. Hudson just texted me that she's dead. Looks like we'll have to find another show to watch."

John was hurrying through this meal. He knew that Sherlock would want to move quickly soon, so time was of the essence. Sherlock noticed this and put his hand over John's hand that he was using to eat.

"Slow down, love." He said flatly, "We have twelve hours and so far it has only taken me little less than nine to finish. We have a little time."

John sighed and willed himself to slow down.

"Sorry. Just sort of anxious over the whole ordeal."

"I know, but it's all fine." Sherlock said, parroting John's old reassurance, "Just a few more puzzles and we will be done."

"Can't come too soon." John sighed while staring into his water glass, watching the condensation dance down the curvature of the glass.

"Look at me." Sherlock said, lifting John's chin with a feather light touch. That seemed to be the only thing that Sherlock wanted from John. Just the good doctor's eyes on him; ever loving, ever seeing, ever scolding, ever understanding.

"This wasn't what I wanted us to start out with. Having to steal moments and never settling. I know you want to settle. But this is what it will always going to be like, isn't it?"

"No, we'll have time to ourselves. It'll work out." John reassured with a smile.

John brought Sherlock's palm to his lips and gently kissed it.

"I love you, Sherlock." John barely whispered, "That's not going to crash and burn just because we do. On a daily basis, that is."

Sherlock grinned and kissed John back quickly.

"I love you too. You're right."

John's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Well, at least things won't ever be boring." Sherlock droned, looking back to John's meal where he stole a bite to appease John.

"It's never been boring with you, love." John laughed.

"Not since I've met you, no." Sherlock replied with all honesty in his voice.

After finishing off his last bite, John stood with Sherlock and found his hand being grasped.

"Where to now, Sherlock?" John asked.

"The morgue. We need to take a look at the body and see what the cause of death was."

As the men made their way into another cab two thoughts hit John. One was a question: How did they never run out of cab fare? And the second: was that Sherlock's hand was incredibly comfortable. In his mind, before Sherlock became his, seeing two grown men holding hands seemed silly to John. Now, he didn't want to let go of Sherlock's hand. They'd never let you know, but both men found something so comforting about holding the other's hands.


	9. Chapter 9

Once they got to the morgue, Lestrade was already waiting for them. The detective inspector nearly rolled his eyes as the pair came around the corner, John holding Sherlock's arm as if he needed to be corralled, and Sherlock allowing it.

"Connie Prince; fifty four. She had one of those makeover shows on the telly. Did you see it?"

"Nope." Sherlock replied as he moved out of John's grasp to look at the woman.

"Very popular she was going places."

"Not anymore." Sherlock marked, "So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul De Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound. Tetanus bacteria enters the blood stream; good night, Vienna."

"I suppose." John mumbled towards Sherlock.

John was pacing around the body, looking over the wound and thinking to himself. Sherlock watched John lean over and assess the wound.

"So what's wrong with this picture?" Sherlock asked out loud.

Lestrade looked over to him, "Eh?"

"It can't be as simple as this." He looked over to John, "Otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong."

All three of the men stared down the corpse. Sherlock was deducing each visible wound on the woman. She had a scratch pattern on her arm which looked to be similar to cat's claws and spots on her forehead that were similar to the pattern of injection needles. What was different, though, was the fact that all of her wounds had traces of blood, but the wound on her hand was perfectly void of blood traces. Sherlock spoke up then.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"The cut on her hand, it's deep. Would have bled a lot, right?"

"Yeah."

"But the wound is clean. Very clean, and fresh."

Sherlock snapped his pocket magnifier shut.

"How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

"Eight – ten days."

Sherlock grinned slightly.

"The cut was made later." John realized aloud.

"After she was dead?" Lestrade questioned. He looked just as lost as John had a moment prior.

"Must have been. The only question is how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system? You want to help, right?" Sherlock asked, turning to John.

"Of course."

"Connie Prince's background – family history, everything. Give me data."

"Right."

John turned and left quickly to find what Sherlock had asked for. Sherlock was about to follow him, but Lestrade stopped him before he could.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of."

"Is there?" Sherlock said flatly.

"Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

"Good Samaritan." He replied in a rather sarcastic tone.

"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?"

"Bad Samaritan."

"I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen, I'm cutting you slack here. I'm trusting you, but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me, what are we dealing with?"

Sherlock smirked slighty.

"Something new."

Sherlock caught up with John as he was making his way down the hall to leave the morgue.

"John, wait." He called out.

John turned around and was nearly run over by the taller man. Sherlock pulled him out to the street, giving him directions along the way.

"Use an alias. Something believable to someone like Kenny Prince."

"Who's that?" John asked, turning the corner where Sherlock was hailing a taxi for him.

"Connie Prince's brother. Go interview him. Come up with something to—"

"I know, Sherlock, I know. I need to get data for you."

Sherlock glanced down at John as the cab pulled up. He then gave John the address and some cab fare. Before John got into the cab, Sherlock caught his hand and pulled him into a gentle hug. John grinned and kissed Sherlock chastely on the lips before slipping into the cab.

"Love you, Sherlock." He said as he went to close the door.

Sherlock beamed.

"Love you too, John."

A few hours later, Sherlock was staring at the wall where he had pinned all the information he had on the bomber, trying to piece together what was going on.

"Connection, connection, connection. There must be a connection." He muttered as he paced the room, "Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him. Admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall. The second from London. The third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing? Working his way round the world? Showing off?"

Suddenly the phone rang out, interrupting his rant.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Joining the...dots?" The old, quaking voice said over the line.

Sherlock frowned and glanced around the room.

"Three hours – boom...boom." She broke off sobbing, and hung up the phone. _

"We're devastated. Of course we are." Kenny said to John as they walked into the sitting room. John went to take a seat on the sofa and the strange hairless thing, which resembled a cat, decided to take an interest in him.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" Raoul asked John.

"Er, no. No, thanks." John said, still trying to get that hairless rat to leave him alone.

"Raoul is my rock. I don't think I could have managed." Kenny said looking over at the houseboy fondly.

John simply pressed his lips together and scratched the thing behind its ear, hoping that the simple gesture would appease it enough for it to leave him alone already.

"We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me." Kenny said sadly.

"And to the public, Mr. Prince?" John asked.

"Oh, she was adored. I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses." Kenny mused,"Still, it's a relief in a way to know that she's beyond this veil of tears."

"Absolutely." God, John hated this stupid little hairless demon that decided to lie across his lap.

"Great. ... Thank you. Thanks again." Sherlock said to someone over the phone.

"It was a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours." Mrs. Hudson said to Lestrade as they waited for Sherlock to get off the phone.

"Colours?" Lestrade asked, slightly confused.

"You know – what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me." Mrs. Hudson said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Sherlock hung up, and walked back over to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.

"Who was that?" Lestrade asked, wondering where Sherlock could get all this information so quickly.

"Home Office." Sherlock answered quickly.

"Home Office?" Lestrade asked, shocked.

"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favour." Sherlock said, shrugging.

"She was a pretty girl but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson giggled to Lestrade, who returned a polite smile, even though he clearly had no interest in what she was rambling about.

"Did you ever see her show?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock quickly.

"Not until now."

Sherlock picked up his laptop to show a clip from Connie Prince's show. The display of sibling harassment was borderline abuse from Connie's part towards Kenny Prince.

"That's the brother. No love lost there, if you can believe the papers." Mrs. Hudson commented.

"So I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites: indispensable for gossip."

Sherlock turned back to the screen. Definitely no love lost there. Kenny may not have killed his sister, but he wouldn't mourn her passing either.

"It's more common than people think. The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left untreated..." John said, speaking to Kenny Prince, who he thought was across the room.

John trailed off when he looked up and Kenny was right beside him, right smack-dab in his personal space. John looked him over, allowing his discomfort to show apparent on his face.

"I don't know what I'm going to do now." Kenny droned, somewhat leaning in.

Well he did have a flare for the dramatic, didn't he?

"Right." John said, leaning as far back from Kenny as possible.

"I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely, but it's not the same without her."

John again tried to move away from the overbearing man beside him, but there was nowhere to go.

"Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?"

"No."

"Right."

"You…fire away."

John was about to start taking down a few fake notes, when he noticed the cat, who'd finally gotten off of him to do whatever it is hairless rat-cats do. Just then a thought occurred to him as he smelled his fingers after scratching his nose.

"_Oh_."

Sherlock was still staring at the wall of information when he heard his phone ring. He quickly checked the screen to see who it was.

"John." Sherlock said without any other greeting. They really didn't have the time now.

"Hi, love. Look, get over here quickly. I think I'm onto something. You'll need to pick up some stuff first. You got a pen?"

"I'll remember." Sherlock said grabbing his coat and heading for the door.

"That'll be him." John said sometime later when he heard the door open. _Thank God_.

"What?" Kenny asked, confused. He had been fixing himself in the mirror and had not been paying attention to John's mentioning of his "photographer".

Sherlock was motioned into the room by Raoul. He was carrying a camera bag and was walking – no – strutting into the room with an air of confidence. John smiled slightly. Go figure.

"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" Sherlock asked politely.

"Yes."

"Very good to meet you." Sherlock said, shaking Kenny's hand, but also taking a good look at it.

"Yes, thank you."

"So sorry to hear about ..."

"Yes, yes, very kind." Kenny said waving off the sympathies. He'd heard enough about his sister for one day, apparently.

"Shall we, er ..." John asked, motioning to Sherlock.

Sherlock walked over to the sofa, put the case down and started rummaging in his bag. Kenny turned back to the mirror and was fiddling with his hair again. Drama kings mustn't have bad hair for a prime photo-op.

"You were right. The bacteria got into her another way." John whispered to Sherlock, who was turning the dials on the camera for the correct light settings.

Sherlock was smirking. "Oh yes?"

"Yes." John replied, not noticing Sherlock's haughty expression.

Kenny turned around then. "Right. We all set?"

"Um, yes." John nodded, turning back to Kenny.

Sherlock to the camera out and got ready to take a few shots.

"Can you ...?" John asked, motioning for Kenny to make a pose.

As Kenny leaned one arm on the mantelpiece and posed, Sherlock walked over to him and started taking photographs of him in a rather unprofessional manner.

"Not too close. I'm raw from crying." Kenny complained.

Just then, that little hairless beast came in and started moving around Sherlock's feet.

"Oh, who's this?" Sherlock inquired.

"Sekhmet, named after the Egyptian goddess." Kenny answered.

"How nice. Was she Connie's?" Sherlock said in a tone that said he truly did not care at all.

"Yes." Kenny replied, not noticing, or caring about, Sherlock's tone.

John reached down towards the cat to keep it away from Sherlock's feet but Kenny beat him to it and cradled the little demon.

"Little present from yours truly." Kenny smiled at the feline.

John didn't understand how that thing could be a present. Whatever works, he guessed.

"Sherlock? Uh, light reading?" he inquired.

"Oh, um..."

He lifted a second flashgun, which he was holding in his other hand, and held it towards Kenny, firing it straight into his face. Very unprofessional, indeed.

"Two point eight."

Kenny squinted his eyes shut against the light.

"Bloody hell. What do you think you're playing at?!" Kenny yelled with his eyes burning from the intense light.

John immediately reached out and rubbed his fingers over one of the cat's front paws. There needed to be a reason he smelled disinfectant when he was holding the cat earlier. Sherlock kept firing the flashgun to keep Kenny's eyes closed, much to the man's disliking.

"Sorry." Sherlock apologized.

John lifted his fingers away and sniffed them as Sherlock continued to fire the flashgun. Yup. The cat reeked of cleaning fluids.

"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you two. What's going on?" Kenny complained.

"Actually, I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us." John said moving away.

"What?" Kenny asked, confused. Right awful reporters, these two were.

"Sherlock." John warned.

"What?" He asked, looking over at John.

"We've got deadlines." John said, grabbing the camera bag.

Sherlock followed after him without another question. This case was getting rather tedious. It wasn't as if he didn't already know.

"But you've not taken anything!" Kenny shouted after them, but the men were gone.

Once they were out of the house, John chuckled delightedly as they speed-walked down the drive and moved towards the main road.

"Yes! Ooh, yes!" John laughed, certain that he'd just helped tremendously with the case.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat."

"What? No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant." John said. He knew he was right. He had to be.

Sherlock was still smiling. "Lovely idea."

"No, he coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet – bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have ..."

Sherlock interrupted him, "I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother."

John chuckled again. That was something he wasn't going to argue against.

"He murdered his sister for her money."

"Did he?" Sherlock asked.

John looked over at him. "Didn't he?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. It was revenge."

"Revenge? Who wanted revenge?" John asked, totally confused.

"Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so..."

"No, wait, wait. Wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?" John asked, stopping and turning to him.

"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor – scrubbed to within an inch of its life. _You_ smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here." Sherlock said, walking on ahead of John.

John scowled at Sherlock, but followed behind him. Could he just once pretend to let him be right? Just once? No, of course not.

"_Because he's bloody Sherlock Holmes, the only one around here with a brain_." John thought to himself, keeping the scowl planted firmly on his face.

Sherlock glanced over at John and kept his expression blank. Maybe he should have just told John in the first place. But then again, what would be the fun in that? He was getting used to these cases, which had become almost entertaining in a sadistic kind of way, so following through was the only thing to do at this point. Perhaps John was just tired. That was it.

Sherlock and John both walked into to Scotland Yard about twenty minutes later and Sherlock walked straight up to Lestrade and handed him a folder that John didn't care to know how he had obtained.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer – Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince. It was botulinum toxin. We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself." Sherlock boasted proudly.

"So how'd he do it?" Lestrade asked.

"Botox injection." Sherlock said as if it should be obvious.

"Botox?" Lestrade asked, more than a little lost.

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose."

"You sure about this?" Lestrade had to ask. Sherlock was rarely ever wrong, but he had to be sure that this was all correct.

"I'm sure." Sherlock said flatly. Of course he was sure. Why did people always question him?

"All right. My office." He turned and walked to his office, leaving the two alone.

"Hey, Sherlock. How long?" John asked, grabbing Sherlock's arm, stopping him from following Lestrade.

"What?" Sherlock looked down at a rather stroppy John and he kept his expressionless gaze.

"How long have you known?" John asked, scowling up at him.

"Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake."

"No, but Sher – The hostage… the old woman. She's been there all this time!" John wanted to really shout, but somehow managed to keep his voice low.

"I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!"

Why didn't John see that the woman didn't matter? All that mattered was catching the criminal.

John let out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock could be a real arse at times, and this time was no exception. John had expected this to happen at some point. People don't automatically change after entering a relationship, and that did not exclude Sherlock. John didn't even know how to begin to tell Sherlock what was wrong with what he had just said about the poor woman. They would discuss it more later, but at that moment he just followed Sherlock into Lestrade's office. A headache was slowly approaching, and he knew they were in for a long night.

Sherlock quickly typed out how Raoul de Santos murdered Connie Prince into his website and posted it. Apparently the bomber was keeping full tabs on them at all times, because almost immediately there was a call on the pink phone.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered.

"Help me." The woman sobbed out.

"Tell us where you are – address."

"He was so ... His voice ..."

"No, no, no, no. Tell me nothing about him. Nothing." Sherlock all but shouted into the phone.

"He sounded so ... soft."

Sherlock heard a shot, and then nothing. No. But he solved the case…

"Hello?"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked seeing Sherlock's shocked face.

"What's happened?" John asked. He knew everything had gone wrong.

Sherlock didn't answer either of them. What could he say? What was there to say? He had been wrong. He was never wrong. Technically he had been right. He did solve the case, but was he wrong to wait until the end to save the hostage? Why did she have to start to describe him? If she had only listened to him, she would still be alive. This was a setback, but there were other rounds to come. He just had to be patient.

John looked down at Sherlock's expression as he lowered the mobile onto the desk. He knew how much of a blow this was to his detective. He and Lestrade exchanged glances as John set his hand reassuringly on Sherlock's shoulder. Oh yes, this was going to be a long night.


	10. Chapter 10

Back at the flat, Sherlock sat in his chair with the phone in his hand, staring into space. John was rested in his chair and watching the telly. Sherlock hadn't uttered a word since the end of the phone call, nor did he make any effort to touch or look at John. The good doctor understood and moved with the motions of old as they sat in an impatient silence. What bothered him was this bomber was using innocent people to play Sherlock. A woman just lost her life for the sake of the game and that was not, in any sense, something to brush aside.

"Well, obviously I lost that round. Although, I did technically solve the case." Sherlock finally spoke in a dismissive tone, "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once he put himself in the firing line."

"What do you mean?" John asked. Ah, the genius finally spoke. John loved Sherlock, there was no more denying that, but sometimes Sherlock was particularly arsey that day.

"Well, usually he must stay above it all. He organizes these things, but no one ever has direct contact." There was almost a sound of awe in his voice.

John's brow furrowed. Really? Sherlock was fascinated, that much was clear.

"So I guess the Connie Prince murder, he set that up. I guess people just call him up and set up a crime like they're booking a holiday?"

"Novel." Sherlock whispered with a definite sound of awe in his voice.

John looked back towards the telly and hummed. Raoul De Santos was being escorted to a black car with the press trailing him. John then looked over to Sherlock, who was staring impatiently at the phone. Not knowing what would happen next was clearly gnawing at him as he held that fascinated countenance.

"Taking his time this time." Sherlock whispered, oblivious to John's scrutiny.

John looked away from Sherlock and rested his head against the chair. His headache from Lestrade's office was taking its toll now and he did not have the patience for it.

"Anything on the Carl Powers case?"

"Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection."

"The killer could have been older." John suggested as he stood to get a pain killer, "Want anything while we wait?"

"The thought had occurred, and no." Sherlock replied too quickly in his distracted daze.

John nodded and went into the kitchen quietly. After taking two small pain killers, he rubbed at his head and breathed. Sherlock seemed more distracted than usual. This didn't bother John as much as the fact that the old woman was out of their hands now. He supposed that was just the doctor in him as John made his way back to the comfort of his chair. When he returned, Sherlock was staring into the distance, hands under his chin, thinking. He didn't even notice when John grunted as he fell into his chair.

John closed his eyes as his head gave a little pound, "So do you think he wants to be caught? Why else would he be playing this game with you?"

"I think he wants to be distracted." Sherlock said quietly. Honestly, he could understand; which possibly should have worried him more than it did.

John pressed his lips together.

"Well, you two would make quite the team." He said as he stood again, this time to find a bed to fall into. Sherlock's gaze snapped over to John.

"Sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake here, Sherlock." John tried not to raise his voice, "Actual human lives. Just so I'm clear on this, do you care about them at all?"

John could feel his blood pressure climbing.

"_Calm down, Johnny_." He coaxed himself.

"Will caring about them held save them?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope." John presented an unpleasant sort of smile and looked down.

"Then I will not continue to make that mistake." Why should he care about them? They were pieces of a puzzle or pawns in a game of chess.

"You find that easy, do you?" This wasn't exactly a question. John had lived with Sherlock long enough to understand that he didn't bother himself with people that seemingly had no relevance to him.

"Yes, very. Is this news to you?" Sherlock asked a bit too coldly.

"Nope. No it's not." John shifted his weight, trying to keep his anger away.

"I've disappointed you, haven't I?"

"That's good. Good deduction." John replied, rubbing at his head.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

John nodded and looked down at his well-loved chair, "Well, alright then."

John was moving away, but he turned back for one last argument against Sherlock's case. He stared the man down and formulated a plan to get Sherlock to listen to the human side of him. He needed to say something, but words were eluding him at the moment. An idea floated by and John grabbed it and pulled it into the light.

"Sherlock."

"Yes? What is it, John?" Sherlock replied, not looking up from the phone.

John leaned forward on his elbows, which were propped on his chair once again.

"Suppose there was a man who'd been away from his family for a long time. Say about two years. When he gets home, he finds his family is in ruin and he has very few options. Among those, he has to find a place on his own, live with his broken family, or live on the streets. He takes to the streets after failing to obtain his own flat. The man is living in a box and has nowhere to turn. Another man, a wealthy man finds him out on his back and gives him a job. The man is overjoyed, well off, but still doesn't understand his job very well. This man eventually finds a job he's good at and even gains a few friends. The man who hired him is suddenly dead and the poor man is framed. Say you deduce all of this about the man instantaneously, because I know you can do that. Tell me, Sherlock. Would you care if the man that was framed was imprisoned or even killed or would you be too concerned with the case to realize that the man in question needed you to help him."

A moment of silence passed between the men as Sherlock opened his mouth.

"Sentiment does not help me solve cases, John. My priority is to solve the case." Sherlock replied, slightly confused as to where John was taking this.

John groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"I was alluding to myself, Sherlock. Would you help me if that's what'd happened? If I hadn't met you?"

Sherlock made a noise that sounded like a small dog that had been kicked.

"That would be different. I would do anything to help you." He replied quietly.

John straightened and crossed to Sherlock.

"Thank you. Keep that in mind whenever we deal with a human life. People have been strapped to explosives, Sherlock, and they have no idea what will happen to them or their families. This man is dangerous and he is playing a game with you. So, with the next person who's strapped to their death, care for them as if they were me. I know neither one of us wants to see me strapped to a bomb."

John bent down and pressed his aching head against Sherlock's and sighed.

"I'm going to kip in my room. You can join if you want."

Without another word, John was making his way upstairs with a grimace on his face with every step he climbed. Sherlock didn't follow John for several minutes, so by the time he made it to his room, John was sound asleep. Sherlock sat down on the end of the bed on the side opposite of John and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest.

John was a light sleeper. He had been ever since he was a child, so he knew when Sherlock sat on his bed. He didn't move though; he was curious to see what Sherlock would do with him. Thankfully, there was no loud noise in the room and the lights were out.

Sherlock leaned against the wall and pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. After a few minutes, Sherlock mumbled a quiet "I'm sorry, John." and rested his head against his legs. He very rarely felt remorse for what he said to people, but John had a way of turning things around and making him think differently.

John's ears perked at the apology and he glanced down to Sherlock. The sight all but broke his heart as he took action. Usually, someone would sit up and talk to their significant other. John wasn't just anyone. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him into his arms and held the detective closely, gently burying his face in Sherlock's curls.

"It's alright." John whispered with a soft kiss to Sherlock's head.

Sherlock kept his head down and held onto John.

"No, it's really not. I know I disappoint you, but that's just who I've always been."

John gently tilted his head up to look at him.

"I know," he said gently, "and I'm sorry for being impatient with you. Love, I'm not going to ask you to change who you are. Then you wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes."

John stroked Sherlock's pale cheek and combed his fingers through the thick hair.

"I'm just going to ask you to be a little more considerate. Ok?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into John's touch.

"I'll try, John, but I make no promises."

John kissed Sherlock's lips once, "I wouldn't expect you to."

"I love you, John." Sherlock said and leaned into another kiss. He believed that he didn't deserve John, but he was glad that they had each other, "Oh, how's the headache I caused?"

"I love you too, Sherlock." John smiled as he returned the kiss, "Going away, but it'd be better if you could go to sleep with me."

John nuzzled down into the covers and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist as the good doctor buried his face into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock smiled and buried his face into John's chest.

"How could I refuse?" Sherlock mumbled against John's jumper.

The men finally situated themselves and John was asleep before he could yawn again. Sherlock stayed awake for a moment, but felt his eyes growing heavy as he breathed in John's scent and stored it in his mind palace. Sherlock finally fell asleep.

John awoke a couple of hours later to Sherlock curled up in his arms and the pink phone buzzing on the side table from a text. Sherlock woke up and looked at John, slightly confused. Had he fallen asleep? Though there were a few other things that Sherlock noticed, he understood the obvious perfectly. He was, at the moment, in John's arms, curled against John's warm body, and John's face was so close and so kissable. Sherlock slid up so that he could have a better reach, grabbed the back of John's neck, and pulled him into a deep passionate kiss.

John let out an involuntary moan and lost himself in the kiss. There he was. Sherlock was in his arms, in his bed. John smiled and pulled him closer. He then gently broke the kiss and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"What was that for?" John asked with a smile.

"Do I need a reason to kiss my boyfriend?" Sherlock asked while kissing along John's jaw.

"No, and neither do I." John replied, turning to catch Sherlock's kiss with his mouth, pulling him in with tender passion.

John's heart rate accelerated as he parted his lips ever so slightly to run his tongue along Sherlock's lips. John took the moment to wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist and pull their bodies closer. Sherlock parted his lips with a sigh and pressed his body to John's. One of his hands found its way to his blogger's hair and the other gently caressed his back. Sherlock was vaguely aware that there was something that needed doing right then, but honestly, he couldn't remember what. John had somehow managed to make his noisy mind quiet.

John pulled the covers around them and tucked Sherlock in, pulling him into the warmth. John gently met his tongue with Sherlock's and tangled his fingers in the detective's thick curls. The good doctor felt heat and need and want surge through his body as Sherlock pressed their bodies together.

Sherlock's heart was racing. A soft moan escaped his lips and his hand tightened in John's hair. He worked his hand around to the front of John's jumper and started pulling it up. John assisted Sherlock by halfway shimmying put of his jumper and tossed it off of the bed. John could feel his pulse climb as he moved his hands around and gently, almost frantically, undid Sherlock's white button-down. He almost closed his eyes when he saw Sherlock looking at his scar. A small frown creased his lips as he worked at the buttons.

"John…" Sherlock breathed out.

John looked at the detective and met his eyes. Sherlock was staring him down with such intensity that John thought he'd done something wrong.

"What is it?"

"You're stunning." Sherlock said in complete seriousness while looking into John's eyes.

John breathed out and pulled the shirt off of Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock quirked his mouth after he threw his shirt on top of John's jumper. After the two of them lay shirtless, John pulled Sherlock back and pressed their hot skin together and pressed his lips back to the detective's.

Sherlock trailed a hand lightly down John's back and side before settling on his hip. He pulled back and lightly kissed at the scar on his little army doctor's shoulder, then back up to his lips. John received the attention well and hooked his arms under Sherlock and pulled him up for another kiss. This one was a little more erratic, less languid, more hungry, needing, and desiring.

John was disappointed when Sherlock pulled back, but caught the wicked gleam in his eye. Without warning, Sherlock had John underneath him, moving under the weight. Sherlock grinned devilishly and kissed his way down John's neck. John breathed out and felt himself grow painfully hard beneath Sherlock's weight. He gently reached up and cupped the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him back into a kiss, infiltrating the detective's mouth with his tongue and fighting for dominance.

Sherlock let out a deep throated moan and held his hands tightly on either side of John's hips. He then moved them around to the doctor's back and experimentally rolled his own hard on against John's. John nearly choked on the air in a shocked moan and involuntarily bucked his hips against Sherlock's and blushed profusely under the weight and heat of his detective. John rested his hands on Sherlock's hips and looked up at him.

"Sher...Sherlock?" he asked in a shaky yet husky voice.

Sherlock looked down and took in a shaky breath, "Yes?"

John closed his eyes. He almost couldn't bring himself to say it. He didn't want to. He wanted everything to fall into place like a perfect little puzzle. He wanted to tell Sherlock – no – demand Sherlock to take him. Beg for Sherlock to allow John to take him. Instead, John looped his arms around Sherlock's waist and rubbed the small of his back with his thumbs.

"Do…do you want this?"

Sherlock sighed and rested his forehead against John's good shoulder.

"I do. I really do. … But right now is not the best time."

John nodded and pulled his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and held him in a close and loving embrace.

"Alright. We'll wait. No rush." John replied with a soft kiss to Sherlock's temple.

"After this is all over and we've caught our bomber, then. Well, I guess we figure that out later." Sherlock said, nuzzling at John's neck.

"Yes, I suppose so." John breathed. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and rested his face there in those lovely dark curls. A moment later, something dawned on hm.

"Sherlock – the phone. You've gotten a text, but it hasn't rung."

Sherlock sat up then, a strange look befalling his face.

"John, how long ago did you hear it?"

John looked over at the alarm clock and rubbed his eyes.

"We woke up about five to ten minutes ago. That's when I heard it."

Sherlock stood up and grabbed his and John's clothes and tossed John's jumper to him.

"Get dressed. We have to go. Now." Sherlock said, looking for his coat, "Normally, he calls and tells us how long we have. This time he hasn't. He's broken the pattern. We may have no more than an hour this time. We need to solve this one quickly."

John slipped into his jumper and grabbed his coat while he slid his shoes on.

"Where is that place in the picture?" he asked as he trailed after Sherlock.

"South between Waterloo Bridge and Southark Bridge. I need to call Lestrade and see if he's found anything of use." Sherlock said, examining the picture as they flew out of the flat and hailed a cab.


	11. Chapter 11

_Another photo. This time of the Thames. Sherlock called Scotland Yard and they told him about a body that had been pulled out of the river. We went along and within minutes, Sherlock had worked out that the body was a security guard and that he was probably liked to a lost painting that had recently been rediscovered and put on display at the Hickman Gallery. Oh, and he revealed that the painting was a fake. I could explain how he did, but I think it's one of those 'you had to be there' moments. He also worked out what had killed the security officer. I say 'what' although technically it was 'who'. But, having seen the man, 'what' is probably a better definition. He was an assassin known as the Golem. He killed people by squeezing the air out of their body with his bare hands! Why would he have done this to some poor security guard was still a mystery, so I went to the guy's flat and discovered a voicemail message from a Professor -. She had called him in response to him having discovered that something somewhere was wrong. The only other clue was that he was into astronomy. Sherlock worked out that the Golem had killed the security officer because he'd worked out that the painting was a fake. We concluded that Professor - worked at a planetarium and rushed over there. But we were too late. The Golem was there and it killed her. Then, it attacked Sherlock. Now, there was no way in Heaven or Hell that I would let anyone hurt Sherlock. As I mentioned earlier, yes, we ARE a couple now. So what is a boyfriend to do when his partner is being choked and looking, quite frankly, terrified? Of course I whacked the Golem with my gun. (I never said I was subtle). Unfortunately, the creature got away. _

_ We returned to the gallery and Sherlock confronted the curator. She denied everything – insisting that the painting was real – and there didn't seem to be much we could do. Then the phone rang once more._

_ It was a child._

_ The child started to count down from ten. Sherlock was screaming into the phone that the painting was a fake but the killer clearly wanted proof. Sherlock stared at the painting as the child continued to count down to his own death. And then Sherlock, at the last minute, worked it all out. It was how the security guard had guessed it was a fake and why he'd phoned a professor at a planetarium. There was a supernova in the painting that didn't appear in our skies until 1858. Therefore, the painting couldn't have been painted by an artist living in the 1640's. The child stopped counting. _

_ Later, the curator admitted that she'd arranged for the painting to be created. She'd been put in touch with various people and they'd all seemed to be working for one man. You've guessed it. M-_

"No, No, NO!" Sherlock yelled at the telly, "Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

John stopped typing when he jumped from the sudden outburst. He turned his face away from Sherlock, hiding his amused grin.

"I knew it was dangerous."

"Hmm?" came from Sherlock, who was still transfixed on the telly screen.

"Getting you into crap telly." John replied while typing a couple of words. He really needed to get better at this typing thing.

"Hm. Not a patch on Connie Prince." Sherlock said, still staring at the screen, but not focused.

"You get the memory stick to Mycroft, Love?" John asked, turning away from his computer.

John and Sherlock both thought back to earlier when they'd apprehended the real memory stick thief. It was Westley's would-have-been-brother-in-law. Sherlock had let John work out that case mostly on his own, but was always keeping tabs on him, always three steps ahead. Once they confronted Joe Harris, the man confessed about dealing drugs, stealing to secret missile plans, and murdering his little sister's fiancé. Later, Lestrade and the team came by and arrested Joe and Sherlock kept the memory stick. John had told him to return it to Mycroft, and that's what John assumed he'd done while they made their way back to the flat and Sherlock had turned off somewhere and met back up with him later.

"Yep. He was over the moon. Threatened with me a knighthood. Again." Sherlock lied.

John turned back to his laptop and finished up the last few sentences and saved the file before closing the lid and moving around to Sherlock's side. He propped up on his knees beside the detective and rested his hands and chin on the arm rest.

"You know, I'm still waiting."

"Hm?" Sherlock looked down at John.

John grinned devilishly and took Sherlock's hands.

"For you to admit that with a little knowledge of the solar system, you would have had this case wrapped up a lot quicker."

Sherlock grinned, "Didn't do you much good, did it?"

"Well, no, but I'm not the world's only Consulting Detective." John smiled.

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, "True. You are my amazing John Watson the army doctor."

John grinned and kissed Sherlock's hand. A second later he felt his mobile go off in his pocket.

"One second, Sherlock." John mumbled as he read the text. John closed his eyes and swore.

"Sherlock, there's an emergency with Harry. She's got herself stranded at a pub, and she needs someone to get her. Do you think you'll be fine on your own for a bit, Love?" John asked as he slipped on his jacket and gathered his phone and keys. Sherlock laughed.

"It may come as a shock to you, but I did actually live on my own for a while before we met."

Sherlock saw the look on John's face and jumped to the point.

"Yes, I think I can manage on my own for a few hours. Go help your sister."

John sighed and hugged Sherlock close, "Thank you. I'll be back soon."

With a quick peck to the lips, John was out the door and rushing into action to help his sister. John rushed out into the street and pulled his jacket closer around himself.

"Dammit, Harry. I'm going to be able to hang you on a clothesline and dry you out by the time your shit is over." John swore to himself.

* * *

Meanwhile in the flat, Sherlock sighed when he heard the downstairs door close. He hated having to lie to John, but he was safer not knowing what Sherlock was about to do. He wouldn't let Moriarty get near John. Sherlock pulled out his laptop and typed a message telling Moriarty to meet him at the pool. After about five minutes he hurried out of the flat to catch a cab.

* * *

John was rounding the corner to the pub when something suddenly covered his eyes. He swung his arms blindly and tried to fight off his attacker, but found himself bound and carried off. To where, of course he didn't know. Panic was gripping at his lungs as he tried to call out for help, but he was silenced with a gag as whoever had him threw him into a car and bound his arms and legs.

Before John had the chance to really struggle, he felt a swift punch to the diaphragm and the wind was knocked out of him. He could hear people talking in the front of the car, but he was in too much pain to try to decipher what they were saying. John tried to breathe and clear out his mind; panic was not going to help him. After a few moments, John came to three conclusions.

One: He was making sure he only got calls from Harry from then on.

Two: Sherlock had better be nearby, because he could really use some help at this point.

Three: This was Moriarty's work.

When John was finally brought out of the car and the binds at his feet were cut, he was shepherded into another room. The place reeked of chlorine. After a few seconds of nothingness, John was knocked down on his knees with a hard hit to the back of his head. The assailant held him up by his arms as his blindfold was brought off.

The first thing John saw was the bomb equipment and realized what was happening. Even more terrifying was the man in question, standing just a couple of yards away from him, glaring down with a ferocious smile.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Moriarty grinned wickedly.

John kept himself still and looked up at the man with a stoic expression.

"Moriarty, I presume." John rasped out. His lungs were still catching up to him and his head hurt like hell.

"Clever man you are!" Moriarty laughed, "You aren't as dull as I thought. After being hit by my assistant, I was sure you wouldn't be able to talk properly. I'm so glad Seb didn't damage you too badly. It'll be much more delicious this way. Oh, and you can go now, babe."

Suddenly, the hold on John's upper body was released and the doctor had to balance himself and try to breathe without letting his actual panic show through. John glared at the man and remained silent. It was better that he not play along with this maniac's game. He was obviously trying to get under John's skin. After a few moments, Moriarty started pacing around John. The man ran his fingers across John's shoulders, causing John to flinch away on instinct.

"Oh, now. Don't be so shy. I know you've become a little bit friendlier to a man's touch." Moriarty cooed in John's ear. Once he realized that he wasn't getting through to him like this, the criminal stood upright and walked to the front of John.  
"Do you know why you're here, Doctor Watson?"

"You need another voice?" John replied in the most obvious way possible.

"Oh, good. You aren't a dimwit. Now, I have another question for you."

Before John could move, a sharp hand punched his face, leaving a cut on his upper cheek and what probably would be a black eye later.

"What are you doing with Sherlock Holmes?"

John closed his eyes and kept his mouth shut. One more punch to the head and John felt blood trickle down his forehead.

"TELL ME WHY YOU HAVE STOLEN…." Moriarty stopped himself and stood up straight, "What's so special about you? You're just an aging ex-solider with a medical degree and PTSD. There's nothing miraculous about you or even inherently brilliant."

John steeled his glare on the man in front of him and suppressed the urges to fight. He was incredibly outnumbered, out-witted, and out-gunned. The doctor kept his mouth shut and kept his glare trained onto Moriarty. The lunatic then stepped closer and took John by the jaw.

"There's nothing, and there never will be, anything special about you. Sherlock just needs another distraction. And I'm pretty sure you could be a rather satisfying time filler, Mr. Three Continents Watson. No matter, though. Your death will be so much sweeter since Sherlock has developed such an adorable attachment to you."

Moriarty straightened up and adjusted his suit. He motioned to one of his goons to put the equipment on John, and the maniac had the gall to smile at John like they were playing a wickedly wonderful game. That's all it was to him, anyway.

John felt the machinery slipped onto him as he stood still, closing his eyes against the terror growing in his chest. Whoever it was that had strapped a bomb to John plopped a parka on him and connected an ear piece and gave him instructions before shoving him to the door.

Moriarty walked up to John with a damp handkerchief and wiped the blood carefully from John's face and head. John tried to move away, but Seb, apparently, grabbed onto his head and held him still. Once he was cleaned of all the blood, John's earpiece was switched on. Moriarty stepped back and turned on a small microphone that he held in his pocket.

"I'll assume the clever little man knows what happens now?"

John stared ahead.

"Deviate any word that I say, and BOOM goes the doctor." Moriarty taunted to the tune of 'pop-goes-the-weasel', "Do you understand what I'm telling you? Oh, and respond out loud. I do love your voice."

With his heart pounding, John closed his eyes and replied, "Yes, I understand."

Moriarty smiled and started walking in the opposite direction with his microphone in hand.

"Let's start the show, then, Johnny boy."

* * *

It didn't take Sherlock long to get to the pool. When he was inside he scanned the room for anyone at all. He knew Moriarty wouldn't skip out on an opportunity like this and Sherlock knew that he was not alone. Finally, he spoke up.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present." He held up the memory stick, "Oh, this is what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this."

John breathed out and opened the door.

Sherlock had been facing the door that he had come through when he heard another door open behind him. When he turned, he felt his heart stop. John was standing before him with a hideous parka around him and a cold sweat across his lip. Sherlock lowered his hand and looked at John from head to toe. John remembered that there was a bomb strapped to him and a piece in his ear.

"Evening. This is a turn up. Isn't it, Sherlock?" John echoed as he blinked his eyes in S.O.S.

"John…what the hell?" Sherlock whispered. He couldn't breathe.

John was Moriarty? He couldn't be. There was no way that his John could be Moriarty. John: the only man he ever trusted. The only person he ever really loved. And he was Moriarty? No. He refused to believe it. But all of the evidence was right there. Sherlock looked at John and knew that his hurt and fear were clear on his face.

"Bet you never saw this coming." This alone was almost too much for John. He could see the clear hurt and fear in Sherlock's eyes and his heart was hurting. _No, Sherlock. It's me. Save me! Please!_

Moriarty finally gave the OK for John to reveal the bomb under the parka. John's breathing accelerated as the laser pointed at his chest.

"What… would you like me… to make him say… next?" John closed his eyes in annoyance, "Gottle of gear…Gottle of gear…Gottle of…"

"Stop it." Sherlock felt a knot loosen. His John was not Moriarty. As soon as that knot loosened, a dozen more replaced it. Sherlock froze his approach when he saw the bomb. The fact that John was in danger because of him… He had to stop this. He would not let anything happen to John so long as he breathed.

John looked at Sherlock and silently begged for his boyfriend to save him. Moriarty buzzed in his ear again. God, his voice was so annoying.

"Nice touch this, the pool. Where little Carl died. I stopped him." John closed his eyes, "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his dear little heart. That would be a shame, wouldn't it, Sherlock?"

John snapped his eyes open with terror filled urgency.

"Who are you?" Sherlock practically yelled. He was trying to stay calm, but was failing. He wanted to rip the bomb off of John, but if he tried, the sniper would shoot and they'd all be gone.

"I'm so sorry." Sherlock said quietly, "I'll get you out of this, I swear."

John kept his gaze on Sherlock as he heard the door open.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call." said a new voice.

Sherlock looked at the door and his hand moved to his pocket, but he didn't pull the gun out. John stood perfectly still as Moriarty made his appearance. The man stepped forward with a lavish grin.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, you are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both." Sherlock said, pulling out the gun and pointing it directly at him. Was it really possible to want to kill someone this much?

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

John closed his eyes. Rage and immense fear, a dangerous combination, was rolling through his body.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point."

Sherlock kept his gun trained on Moriarty. Fiery rage boiled in his belly and he gripped the gun.

"Don't be silly, someone else is holding the gun. I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you!"

Sherlock's eyes hardened at the poor comparison.

"Dear Jim…please will you fix it for me, to get rid of my lover's nasty sister. Dear Jim, will you fix it for me to disappear to South America? Dear Jim, will you give me a drug so I can kill off Captain John Watson?"

Jim stopped his trek and stared at Sherlock with a smug yet amused gaze, "Just so."

"Consulting Criminal." Sherlock said, his voice hardening, "Brilliant."

"Isn't it?"

John looked up at Sherlock, listening to the conversation. He couldn't see Moriarty yet, but boy could he hear that awful voice.

"Nobody ever gets to me. And no one ever will."

He was in view now. Sherlock cocked his gun and trained it on Moriarty's forehead.

"I did."

"You've come the closest. But now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Yeah, ok, I did."

Sherlock looked over to John, whose breathing was picking up and there was panic behind his eyes.

"But the flirting's over Sherlock. Daddy's had enough nooow. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid just to get you to come out and play."

Sherlock could see John just barely shaking his head. One quick glimpse told Sherlock that John had been hit twice…no…three times in the head. Blood tracks around the wounds. Sherlock absolutely boiled inside and his eyes told Jim everything he ever wanted to know.

"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear."

John bristled. _**My**__ dear?!_

"Back off. Although I have loved this. This little game of ours; playing Jim from I.T., playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?" Moriarty grinned as if he was playing with a new mate at the park.

"People have died." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"That's what people DO!"

Sherlock's voice went as cold as Antarctic ice, "I will stop you."

"No you won't." Moriarty crossed over to John and looked him over from head to toe, "You can talk, Johnny Boy. Go ahead."

John looked at Sherlock, his mouth pressed into a fine little line.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock mouthed to John. John only nodded and stared ahead to calm himself.

Sherlock slightly nodded and turned his attention back to Moriarty. He then held out the memory stick.

"Take it."

"Oh, that. The missile plans." Moriarty brought the memory stick to his lips, but a moment later his countenance changed.

"Boring! I could have gotten those anywhere." He said as he flung the little memory stick into the pool.

John took that opportunity and ran behind Moriarty and latched onto him, pinning his arms behind him.

"Sherlock, Run!" John yelled. He would deal with this madman himself. Even if it killed him, Sherlock would be safe.

Moriarty just laughed and allowed himself to be pulled a little before stiffening his back.

"Good! Very good. I never expected this from you, John. Here I thought you didn't like fighting."

John finally growled, "If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, we both go up."

Moriarty was putting up no struggle, and that was infuriating John to no end.

"Oh, he _is_ sweet. I can see why you like him. Then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. So touching and loyal." Moriarty turned his face to John's for a brief second, "Oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson."

John looked up and his bravery instantly shattered as the sniper laser trained on Sherlock's head.

"Gotchya!"

John let go and backed away, holding his hands up, "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock could only nod to John's apology. He didn't trust his voice at the moment. He'd been stricken to the bone when John latched onto Moriarty, sacrificing his own life for Sherlock's.

"_You are not going to bloody well get yourself killed for __**me**__, John Watson_." Sherlock seethed to John in his mind.

Moriarty brushed off his suit and turned to Sherlock.

"Westwood." He indicated to his suit, "Do you know what happens, Sherlock, to you?"

"Oh, let me guess, I get killed?"

"Kill you?" he grimaced, "No, don't be obvious. I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it for something special. No no no no no no… If you don't stop prying, I will _burn_ you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

John glanced at Sherlock and felt his own heart twist. He knew this man was perfectly capable of destroying anything or anyone he wanted to with just a snap of his fingers. Sherlock couldn't help himself from glancing at John. No point in lying now.

"If you touch him again, I will kill you." He growled.

"Oh, I believe you." Moriarty replied while looking at John, "But your time together would be cut short, wouldn't it? Much like your little sweetheart."

John glared at the man, "_Ah, yes. Another short joke_."

After an awful moment, Moriarty made a noncommittal noise and looked to the side.

"Well, I'd better be off. It was so nice to have had a proper chat with you two."

"What if I was to shoot you now?" Sherlock asked, repositioning the gun so it was right in Moriarty's face.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." He replied, making a shocked 'O' with his mouth, "Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock, I would. And just a teensy bit…disappointed. Of course you two wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

Moriarty finally made his way to the door.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch you…later."

"No you won't!"

And the door was closed. John looked up at Sherlock and realized that he'd been holding his breath the whole time. As soon as he was sure that Moriarty was gone, Sherlock was ripping the bloody bomb off of John's body.

"Alright? Are you alright!?" Sherlock all but yelled, his voice breaking as he slid the bomb across the floor.

John closed his eyes and breathed out shakily. His knees threatened to give way as he reached for Sherlock blindly.

"Yes, yes, I'm alright." John lied through his buckling knees and weary breaths.

Sherlock caught John before he could fall and he sank them both to a sitting position on the floor and held John close and tight.

"John, oh God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Sherlock's voice broke again. What was the point of hiding emotions when he almost lost the only person he ever loved?

He pulled John back and examined his wounds. Two open gashes to his head and one cut on his cheek. Stitches needed, most likely. Bruising was forming around John's eye. That would last for several days, at the least. John watched as Sherlock tried to control his breathing, but his transport was having none of that. John tore the gloves off of his hands and placed each hand on either side of Sherlock's face and pulled him away from his face to look him in the eyes. He needed to let Sherlock know that he was alive and they were both safe for the time being.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, breathe. Breathe." John said slowly, "Breathe with me."

John held Sherlock's gaze and showed him how to slow his breathing and gently rubbed his arms and shoulders, letting his own panic go all but forgotten. Once Sherlock gained some control over his breathing, he looked down at John and gripped his hands.

"John, you can't risk your life like that. You…" he took a minute to inhale, "You can't do that. Especially not trying to protect me."

John held either side of Sherlock's face and breathed out.

"Love, I was a soldier before I met you. I already risked my life for you, then and now."

John pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace and buried his sore face into his neck, breathing as steadily as he could at the moment. He could have lost Sherlock that night to a strange man. He could have lost _his _life to a strange man. John was glad he could have been there to deter his love from making any foolish decisions. Sherlock kissed gently at John's forehead head and ran his fingers though his short hair, searching for any other wounds. Slowly, he regained control of his breathing. He was about to stand up when he saw a laser pointer trained on John's back. He knew it'd been too easy. Sherlock gently pulled John up and placed a tender kiss on his lips.

"I love you, John." He said with a stern darkness in his voice.

"I love you too, Sherlock. What's wr-?"

John saw the lasers fixed on himself and Sherlock.

"Oh, shit..." He mumbled under his breath.

"Sorry, boys!" Moriarty sang out, "I'm soooo changeable. It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock turned towards Moriarty, grabbing his gun as he did so.

"And probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock pointed the gun at Moriarty, but slowly lowered it to the bomb between them.


	12. Chapter 12

**Warning: This story will finally earn its rating. Sexual content to follow. If you do not wish to read this part, it will be marked with a ;) before and after.**

**Thank you all for reading this story. I cannot even begin to describe how amazing it feels to write something and people actually read it and like it. Well without further adieu, here is the conclusion. Enjoy. :)  
**

* * *

John and Moriarty both stared between the gun and the bomb and back to Sherlock. John was slightly terrified at what Sherlock might do. The next few seconds were agonizing before John heard a familiar bass echo through the pool. Sherlock looked around with a slightly confused expression on his face. Moriarty pulled out his mobile and groaned. John listened and noted the song Staying Alive by the Bee Gees. Oddly ironic ringtone for the situation.

"Do you mind if I get that?"

"Oh, no please. You've got the rest of your life." Sherlock said off-handedly, not once lowering the gun from its holding place.

John put his head against the wall behind him and listened as Moriarty chatted away on his mobile. John and Sherlock were then forced from their temporary comfort when the lunatic yelled.

"SAY THAT AGAIN."

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance and put their defenses up even higher than they already were.

"Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you." Moriarty threatened, dragging the word 'skin' out a lot further than warranted.

Moriarty then walked back over to them and looked half dead, "Sorry, wrong day to die."

"Ah, did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asked with sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock. John." Moriarty droned as he walked away, putting the phone back to his ear, "If you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I will make you into shoes."

And with a snap of his fingers, Jim Moriarty was gone. John put one hand over his racing heart and one on Sherlock's shoulder.

"What just happened?"

"Someone changed his mind." Sherlock said as he lowered the gun, "We better get out before he changes it again."

John didn't have to be told twice before he grabbed Sherlock's hand and dragged them both out of the pool and into the road. Sherlock hailed a cab, climbed in, and pulled John tightly against him and he wasn't planning on letting go any time soon. After a few moments, Sherlock became fidgety and started maneuvering John around again. It seemed that Sherlock had forgotten, deleted, or simply didn't care that people had a right to personal space, because right then he put both arms around John's waist and practically pulled him into his lap. Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head against John's chest.

"John, I'm sorry. The whole point in me going alone was to avoid putting you in danger. And look what that got you…"

Sherlock's arms tightened around him even more and John felt Sherlock's hand gripping his jacket.

"I realize that you were a soldier, and that was your job. But, John, I…I can't…live without you, John. I won't try."

John forgot all about the cabbie that was giving them the hairy-eyeball and turned to hold Sherlock. He knew that it was difficult for him to push through the nights happenings. Hell, it was a little too much for John to handle. John gently rubbed Sherlock's back and rested his lips against his forehead. When Sherlock finished speaking, John looked down at his detective and combed his fingers gently through those mad curls.

"Sherlock, you know I love you and I will die for you if need be. If that sniper hadn't aimed his gun at you, I wouldn't have let go. You have so much more to offer the world than I do. I would rather die than live one second without you next to me." John bent down a little and kissed Sherlock's lips, "You mean the world to me."

John almost didn't notice the cabbie clearing his throat, urging them to get out, that they were at their destination, that his shift had ended two minutes ago for God's sake. John groaned and paid the cabbie and pulled Sherlock with him into the flat and didn't bother with taking another step upstairs before turning around and planting a kiss on Sherlock's lips, this time not having to tiptoe to reach him.

"I love you. I love you. I love you." He whispered into Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John tightly and pressed him against the wall and for every "I love you" he received, he returned an "I love you too" and a kiss. John tightened his grip around Sherlock, his physical need suddenly growing more urgent. He didn't know whether it was from the near-death experience and adrenaline rush or from it being put off for nearly three weeks, but John did know that he needed Sherlock _tonight_. John ran his hands up Sherlock's chest and into his messy hair as he kissed those beautiful lips fervently.

**;)**

Sherlock nipped at John's lips until his patience wore thin and shoved his tongue into John's mouth. This earned him a throaty moan from John, which urged Sherlock further to slide his hands down to John's hips and press their hips together, rolling his erection over John's. John breathed in sharply as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and wrestled his tongue against Sherlock's. Sherlock then pulled away and breathed heavily into the air.

"We might want to take this upstairs. Otherwise we may give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack." Sherlock whispered into John's ear.

"And your limbs in the crisper didn't?" John laughed, but not a second later, he was pulling Sherlock up the stairs and into their flat.

They'd barely made it in before Sherlock shut the door, locked it, and pressed John against the door. He pinned John's hands above his head and started kissing and biting at John's neck, leaving pretty little marks across the tender skin. John moaned under the pressure and shuddered as he latched his hands onto Sherlock's and exposed his neck before kicking up his leg and hooking it around Sherlock's waist, pushing the two of them closer.

This earned John a deep moan from Sherlock as the taller man's weight set against him and the door. Sherlock continued to nip and suck at John's neck before he trailed along his jaw and ghosted over John's lips. All the while, John was tightening his leg around his detective and pressed their hips together. John moaned only slightly at the feeling of Sherlock's "arousal" against his.

"Sher…Sherlock." John panted.

Sherlock was slowly loosening his grip on John's hands and let them fall as he wrapped his hand around the back of John's neck, carefully avoiding the still slightly bloodied knot that had formed back there.

"Hm?" was all he could really manage. He was a bit…preoccupied by something going on in their lower regions. This was causing him to struggle with forming a coherent thought, which annoyed Sherlock to no end.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and lowered his leg, but kept their hips pressed together.

"Would you rather take this to the bedroom?" he whispered in a low growl. He wasn't called Three Continents Watson for nothing. John felt Sherlock shiver and he smiled cruelly against the man's lips.

"What would you deduce?" Sherlock asked, finally regaining his voice.

John was nearly shaking with anticipation as he grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him to the downstairs bedroom and pinned him to the bed. John took in all of Sherlock's body with his eyes and began undoing his clothes. Sherlock's heart rate shot as he tried to pull John's jumper off, but was unsuccessful with his horribly shaking fingers. Sherlock silently cursed himself and let his hands fall to the side and let John strip him down to his pants. Looking at Sherlock's flushed face, John stripped himself down to the same state and planted a hand on either side of Sherlock's head and looked down at him. Sherlock could see the clear hunger reflected in John's dilated pupils.

Even before John had undressed him, Sherlock had felt naked under the doctor's gaze. Now it seemed like every scar, blemish, and imperfection were prominently on display for his love. Sherlock closed his eyes and fought against the want to move John away and cover his body. It wasn't as if John hadn't seen him nearly naked before. But that was usually in the name of science or a case. This was much more intimate and frankly, terrifying. Sherlock shivered under the scrutiny.

John lifted one of his hands and gently caressed Sherlock's face. The blank expression spoke volumes to John as he found every scar, every blemish, and every imperfection and kissed each one with lingering lips. Sherlock kept his eyes closed and breathed as steadily as he could under John's lips. In John's eyes scars and blemishes were not ugly or undesirable, but a memory with a story held in each one.

In his trek across Sherlock's body, John found three freckles leading down the man's side and John followed them down to his hip. When he came to the waist band, John bit it and pulled Sherlock's pants off, exposing him completely. John's breath caught in his chest as he was momentarily stunned by Sherlock's body. He almost felt like he just needed _permission_ to touch Sherlock. _Almost_.

Before Sherlock could react, John was on top of him again with his face so close to the newly exposed area. John glanced up at Sherlock - whose eyes had flown open in feeling John's hot breath against his skin – and seemed to ask for permission. Sherlock managed a nod and laid his head back against the pillow.

John let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. He'd never done this before, so he just imagined how he would have wanted it done to him. Gathering up his courage, John left no time for rethinking and pressed his lips around Sherlock's head. Sherlock gasped out against the pressure and fisted the sheets in his hands. John paused for a moment before slipping his lips over the head and descended his mouth quickly down the shaft.

Sherlock was in a state of euphoria. He'd never felt anything like this before. The sheets were tightened in his grasp as he let out a small moan.

"J…John." Sherlock breathed out.

"Yes…?" John let go and looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock sat up enough to reach for the night stand and picked up a small bottle. He pressed the lubricant into John's hand and looked into John's face. He knew his was bright red from what would have been an epic blow-job and the uncharacteristic embarrassment he felt. He was almost afraid to ask this of John. Sherlock didn't mind what they had been doing; he loved what they had been doing. But this…this was something intimate and personal and he wanted it, but needed to make sure that John wanted it as well.

John's hands slightly trembled as he took the bottle. It was smooth and cool in his hand. He looked up at Sherlock and knew his face was just as red as Sherlock's was. He gently placed a hand on Sherlock's hip and kissed the skin there.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly, "Because we can wait if you're more comfortable. I don't want to rush you."

John held the bottle firmly in his hand. He wanted to do it. Oh, he wanted to do Sherlock more than anything else at the moment, but he needed to make sure that Sherlock was completely ready. John didn't want to hurt Sherlock's feelings or pride; because they wouldn't be the only things hurting. Sherlock put his hand on John's chest – right over his heart. He closed his eyes and felt the quick rhythm under his fingers.

"I need you. I need this." He ran his hand down John's chest then around his back, "Please."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and kissed his lips, "As you wish."

John sat up and opened the bottle's lid. New. After squirting out the lubricant onto his fingers, John warmed it up by running his fingers together in soft motions.

"It's going to hurt a little, so just relax. Ok?"

John kissed down Sherlock's faint happy trail and moved to his destination. He then kissed Sherlock's bony hip as he spread the detective's legs and ran his fingers methodically over the entrance before slipping one finger in. Sherlock found it hard to keep calm, but he managed. He kept himself from jumping when he felt John's finger slide in. It didn't necessarily hurt, but it wasn't extremely comfortable. After a couple of minutes, John noticed Sherlock's nod as a signal to slide another finger in.

Sherlock let out a quiet moan as John reached his free hand up and caressed the back of Sherlock's neck and rubbed soothing circles around the tense muscles there. After a soft kiss to Sherlock's hip, John lightly licked up the detective's happy trail while moved his fingers languidly.

John breathed in sharply when he felt Sherlock arch his back off of the bed with a moan when John brushed against his prostate. John looked down at Sherlock, not surprised to see the sheets clinched in his long hands.

"Do…do that again." Sherlock breathed out.

John almost didn't understand Sherlock's request, but the realization flashed across his mind a moment later. John slid his arm down from Sherlock's head and perched up on it give himself some support as he pushed his fingers a little deeper to find the detective's prostate. John could feel his body reacting to Sherlock's and he felt as if every nerve ending was vibrating and he could hear the rush of his blood in his ears.

Sherlock was gripping the sheets in earnest and biting his lips to refrain from making any embarrassing sounds. He was trying to hold on, but his control was slipping from his fingers. His and John's escapade would be cut short if this kept going.

"Stop. John, stop." Sherlock breathed out with a slight crack in his voice.

"Are you alright?" John asked as he pulled his fingers out slowly, "Did I hurt you?"

That thought terrified him more than anything.

"No, I was…" Sherlock leveled his breathing and flushed a little, "I just needed a moment."

It finally occurred to John that maybe they had been moving too fast for their first time. John knew he had no trouble with it, but he had to force Three Continents Watson to stop back and allow Dr. Watson to assess the situation. John held the back of Sherlock's head and placed a tender kiss on his lips.

"We can slow down if you want. There's no rush." John kissed Sherlock's neck, "It's alright."

"No, I just needed to…calm down for a minute."

Sherlock loosened his hold on the sheets and put his arms around John and let out a soft laugh.

"Things were about to be cut short."

John blushed and kissed Sherlock's chest.

"Sorry," he said quietly, "we'll go a little slower."

John waited a few moments before sliding down Sherlock's body again and kissed the alabaster skin on the way down. When he finally reached his destination, he asked no questions and resumed his work with two fingers rather than one. Sherlock was almost sorry for the loss of contact, but that was quickly erased when John's lips met his skin. He breathed in sharply as he felt John work to stretch him.

"John." He called out steadily, to avoid concerning John again. He found John's hand that wasn't occupied at the moment and John entwined their fingers together.

"Yes?" John replied huskily while debating whether to insert a third finger. He kissed Sherlock's skin again and held his gaze.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand and nodded, mostly to himself. He didn't know how to put this tactfully, so he decided with direct. (As if there was anything but direct statements.)

"I'm ready." He said quietly, locking his eyes on John.

John cupped Sherlock's neck and brought a kiss to his lips while he slid a third finger in and began to pick up speed, though still moving slowly. John tried to keep himself in check, but he shook with anticipation. He needed Sherlock, needed to be inside him. Once he felt Sherlock open up, John moved onto his knees after slicking himself with lube and tilted Sherlock's hips up for a better reach. With a soft squeeze to Sherlock's hand, John lined himself up and eased himself in.

Sherlock closed his eyes and moaned in a loud, strained baritone. It hurt. It hurt a lot worse than he imagined, but he didn't want to stop. Instead, he held onto John's hand, focused on breathing again, and focused on John. John held Sherlock's hand firmly in his and placed a kiss on his knuckles. After his detective finally relaxed, John started moving his hips slowly and let a small moan escape. Sherlock let out a low moan in response and tilted his hips a little higher. Sherlock grabbed John's neck, pulled him down and kissed him hard while meeting his thrusts.

John was unabashedly breathing out at this point as he started to pick up speed. He experimentally twisted his hips at different angles, hoping to meet Sherlock's prostate every other thrust. From the moans he heard, he considered himself to be doing a good job. John returned Sherlock's kiss hungrily and slid one hand to the detective's hard and dripping cock.

Sherlock broke from the kiss and bit down on John's shoulder and sucked at the skin hard. He breathed shakily and it was by sheer force of will that he didn't come right then and there. John groaned and hissed under the pressure and breathed out as he picked up the pace. Sherlock pulled his head back and examined the love-bite. He didn't break the skin, but there would be a pretty mark there in the morning.

After blinking his eyes a couple of times and clearing the stars away, John continued to thrust into Sherlock. Harder, faster, more powerful. He drove forward and rubbed Sherlock in time with each of his thrusts.

"John," Sherlock moaned loudly, "John!"

Sherlock arched into John's touch and after a few more strokes and thrusts, Sherlock came into John's hand with a stifled cry as he bit down on John's collar. Sherlock fell back and breathed heavily, still moaning as John thrust into him. John was completely undone by the sight. Two thrusts later and he felt himself pour into Sherlock, his body shaking with the impact of the orgasm. He could barely breathe as his sight sharpened once more and he slowly slid out of Sherlock and fell down beside him.

**;)**

When his breathing returned to normal, Sherlock turned on his side to John and ran his fingers over the slightly sweat dampened hair. John breathed heavily and half smiled. After raising his hand to Sherlock's soft cheek and stroking his beautiful cheekbone, John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock softly.

"How…how was that?" he asked, suddenly a little self-conscious.

"Surely you don't need me to answer that question," Sherlock said, sitting up a little to look at John, "you being a reasonably intelligent man, I'd suspect you knew. But, I will explain if I must."

Sherlock held John around his shoulders and spoke in low tones.

"That was amazing, extraordinary, wonderful, brilliant, and fantastic." Sherlock said, mimicking John's praises for his deductions.

Afterwards, Sherlock pulled John in for a soft and languid kiss.

"Oh, and I love you, John."

John smiled against Sherlock's lips and melded into the kiss.

"I love you too, Sherlock. I love you so much." John pulled Sherlock into his arms for a gentle embrace.

After he let go, John grabbed a flannel from the bedside table and cleaned himself and Sherlock off and kissed Sherlock's belly. After putting the cloth away, John laid back and pulled Sherlock into a close embrace.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock responded while pulling the duvet over himself and John and snuggled in.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls and rested his head against his loves.

"Sherlock, I need to know. Why do you love me? Why did you choose me of all people? I'm just…just John. What's so special about a retired army doctor?" John asked, Moriarty's words buzzing in his mind.

Sherlock nuzzled his face against John's neck and took a deep breath and kissed the soft skin there.

"You are all the things I never have been, John. Kind, loving, and caring. These were the things that I scoffed at. The things that I thought made people weak. The things that I thought I didn't need. I had the work, and that was enough. There was no one to try to get me to sleep after staying awake for days on end. No one cared if I went without food for long intervals and then forced me to eat 'just one damned plate' of food. I was just a freak."

Sherlock stopped for a moment and looked into John's watery eyes.

"And then you limped into my life with that ridiculous cane that you didn't need. And you became all of the things that I needed and more. You actually cared. No one ever had really cared. I still scoffed at first. I bit back at you for trying to mollycoddle me, but I never really meant a word of it."

There were tears in Sherlock's eyes now that matched John's.

"I was alone, John. I always had been, and I didn't think I needed anyone."

John accepted the hand that came to rest on his wet cheek and wipe the tears off.

"I needed you. You were everything I never knew I needed or wanted. You are everything I need and want. You are not _just_ John. You are _my_ John. My own John Watson."

John rested his hand on Sherlock's cheek and gently stroked the skin with his thumb. Each word that came out of Sherlock's mouth nearly brought a new tear to John's eye as he choked down his cries of love and sympathetic hurt. John then wrapped a strong arm around his Sherlock and brought him closer and enveloped him in a close embrace.

"Sherlock, do you realize how much you've changed my life?" John asked while pressing his face into Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock shook his head against John's neck and held on tightly. He almost felt as if he let go of John for even a second, John would disappear. None of this felt like it could be real. Like it could ever happen for someone like Sherlock Holmes. John held the back of Sherlock's head in one hand and wrapped his other arm around his back. After taking in a breath, John began.

"Sherlock, you deduced my life within seconds of meeting me. You knew almost everything. Just almost." John rubbed his fingers through Sherlock's curls, "What you didn't know was that I…I."

Words were failing him at the moment. How does someone tell the person they love about a terrifying part of their past? Would what he have to say put Sherlock off? There was only one way to find out, and that was to man up and just let it out already.

"Mike Stamford introduced us on a very important day."

Sherlock looked up at John and clued in, already trying to guess what kind of day.

"It was…the day that…I was going to kill myself."

Sherlock's face fell.

"I was broken, Sherlock. I'd lost most of my friends to the war. I almost lost my sister to alcohol completely. My old friends had moved on and most of them had forgotten me. I was left behind. I had no one in my quiet, dull life. It was too quiet. I was so alone. The day I met you, I thought you were a pompous arse, and a bit of a creeper. That's only partly true. But when you deduced me, I felt thrilled. It felt amazing to know that someone finally _saw_ me. I needed – still need and want – you. No one is as quick or clever or as amazing as you. And you, my love, my _genius_, are not a freak. You gave me a second chance and you fixed me. I owe you so much." John kissed Sherlock, "I love you so much."

Sherlock let the tears escape his eyes as he kissed John's lips gently for a moment, and then buried his face in John's neck. Had he really helped John that much just by being himself? Everyone always told him not to be himself, but by doing that, he saved the man he loved. Maybe he wasn't as horrendous as everyone made him out to be.

"I love you too, John." Sherlock mumbled into John's skin.

John held Sherlock close and nuzzled his face into his hair. He could feel the grips of sleep playing with his eyes, but he wanted to stay awake and hold his Sherlock. He'd almost lost him that night and John wanted to touch him; feel his breath against his skin. John placed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's head and held him close. Sherlock gripped John and breathed in his scent. He'd come too close to losing him and the memory of John with a bomb strapped to his chest completely unnerved Sherlock. He shuddered and held John tighter.

"Don't go anywhere. Don't leave, John."

John kissed Sherlock's head firmly and tightened his grip, "I'm not going anywhere. Never."

And for the moment, that was enough for Sherlock; for the both of them. They had no idea where Moriarty was, or what he had planned. They didn't know who else would come after them, but it didn't matter. At that moment, they were safe in each other's arms. Everything else could wait.

* * *

**Thank you to all for reading this story, and sticking with us. I really hope you enjoyed this story. However, this is by no means the end of Sherlock and John's tales. There are more stories on the way from me and GivenThePuzzleIWillDance. Stay tuned for more from our Baker Street Boys. **


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